


What the Future holds

by Niitza



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge 2015, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Implie/Referenced Overdose, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Magic, Med student!Cas, Officer!Dean, Slow Build, Suicidal Thoughts, Thoughts about death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-23
Updated: 2015-10-23
Packaged: 2018-04-27 17:36:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 67,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5057665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niitza/pseuds/Niitza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What do you do when you find out you're going to die soon? Because Dean has no idea. All he knows, thanks to fucking Brady's fucking scrying mirror, is that four years from now he won't be around anymore. Now he is torn between trying to enjoy the things he has-and maybe the things he's never allowed himself to have until now-to the fullest, and spending what time he has left in a drunken stupor in hopes of drowning out everything-his fear, his pain, his loss.</p><p>And then there's that poor med student, on whom he unloaded all his crap the night he learned the truth and who might have something to say, too.</p><p>Written for the Dean/Castiel Big Bang Challenge 2015</p>
            </blockquote>





	What the Future holds

**Author's Note:**

> This is not the DCBB I was hoping to write when I signed up, but since my other projet proved more than stubborn in not letting me write it and this one clamored for my attention (and kept growing in size) it was the one I came up with, and I have to admit part of me is glad of it.
> 
> I'd like to thank [hamburgergod](http://hamburgergod.tumblr.com/) for beta-ing this work and the enthusiastic comments she peppered my fic with while doing so. It's always great to know which passages you liked or which elicited a reaction. Thank you for helping me smoothing out some parts and for telling me my fic didn't suck. Thank you to [Hellosaidthemoon](http://hellosaidthemoon.tumblr.com/) too for being yet another pair of eyes and asking the question that gave me an excuse to add _more_ Dean!angst.
> 
> A lot of thanks to my artist, [Sinerei](http://aberimfauscho.tumblr.com/), for her kindness and enthusiasm and for her great work - both with the illustrations and the banner. Let's hope I manage to properly include it all in the fic ^^
> 
> Also, thank you to the organizers of the Dean/Castiel Big Bang Challenge for setting all of this up and making it all run so smoothly. I'm pretty sure that without the challenge that fic would not have been written.
> 
> I have tried to tag any squeaks or triggers I think are included in the fic. If I missed something, don't hesitate to tell me so (nicely though, please) and I'll add it asap.
> 
> And last but not least, for those around here who are wondering about the summary and what it might mean (yes, I'm talking about major character death here) and do not wish to enter a fic whose ending they might not like without knowing, please see the end note.

 

*

 

It was Sam's twenty-first birthday, the party a riot of noise and laughter: the perfect ending to a great day.

Dean's little brother probably hadn't thought so at first—not when his alarm had unexpectedly started blaring _Heat of the moment_ at nine in the morning on a Sunday and Dean himself had barged into his bedroom, booming: "Rise and shine, Sammy!"

Dean knew—hell, _everyone_ knew—that interrupting Sam's sleep on his day off equated to kicking a puppy—that is to say needlessly and worryingly cruel—and poking a slumbering bear—that is to say reckless and stupid, if not downright suicidal. The ensuing pursuit had had a few casualties—Sam's pillow and bedcovers, his bedside table, a chair, a pile of books and paperwork, a lamp that had fortunately bounced off its paper shade instead of breaking—but had abruptly ended in the tiny kitchen, where Sam, hot on his brother's heels and intent on making him pay, had discovered the huge breakfast laid out on the table, fit for a king and waiting just for him. There had been coffee and freshly squeezed orange juice, bacon and toast, pancakes and scrambled eggs, yoghurt, homemade muesli and even fruit salad, because Dean knew his baby brother and, for the occasion, had catered to all of his tastes.

In that second, it had been obvious on Sam's face that Dean's mandatory bout of being a jerk was forgiven, if not forgotten, and that the day was taking a turn for the better. It had kept that trend, through a lengthy phone call with their mom and a light lunch eaten outside with friends who had whisked Sam away to go see an exhibition while Dean stayed behind to get the apartment ready, all the way up to that moment.

They'd just finished eating the pizza they'd ordered and the cake Rebecca had brought. Sam had opened his presents—some hilarious, some thoughtful—and Dean expected they'd now turn to alcohol and games. That was when he got a reminder that most of Sam's acquaintances didn't run in the same circles as he and certainly didn't have the same idea of fun, because they didn't. Instead, one of Sam's douchey friends—Brady, Dean thought his name was—suggested a séance and pulled a scrying mirror out of seemingly nowhere.

Dean knew about them, of course. He knew that it was the new hype, what cool college kids did nowadays to show just how much better than everyone else they were. Older, because you had to be of legal age to get your magic license; richer, because they could easily afford the training and exams leading up to said license; and smarter, because not only were they good enough to get legal authorization to practice magic unsupervised, but they could also master something as tricky as time and the human mind. Forget good old games like spin-the-bottle: they were nothing but a consolation prize for dumb high school kids and losers. Divination was where it was at.

It wasn't surprising that some of Sam's friends would be into that. Half of them were overprivileged brats, the other half people who hadn't gotten over the _Lord of the Rings_ movies, and all of them probably hoped that they'd find Narnia if only they bought a house with large enough closets one day. Hence their choice of college and majors, directing them towards extremely lucrative careers. But what it came down to right then was that, since most of them had dabbled in magic at one point or another, or still did, like Sam, Brady's suggestion was almost unanimously welcomed.

Not by Dean. Magic wasn't his thing; poking around the future even less. It might have had something to do with the fact that he had as much magical predispositions as a teaspoon, but mostly it was because he didn't like the implications that came with it: that your future was a linear path, something fixed—because it had to be, if you could foresee it. Didn't it?

He would've liked to abstain. But it was Sam's birthday, and Sam was happy, twenty-one and finally legal to drink, which meant that he'd _finally_ allowed himself to down his first whole bottle of beer ever. Cheeks rosy, lips stretched into a beatific grin, all he had to do was tug on Dean's shirt when he felt his hesitation and say: "Come on."

Dean sat down beside him in the loose circle his friends had formed and listened to the instructions.

It was the worst idea he could've had, he soon found out. But how could he have known, really?

 

*

 

He waited until everyone was distracted, until they'd had a bit more to drink and finally moved on to Mario Kart, to find someone and ask.

He surveyed the room for a while: those who weren't playing were either hollering encouragements or deep in conversation and beer-pong at the table. In the end, he settled on Castiel.

Dean didn't know him very well. He'd met him for the first time that very evening actually, but from what he'd gathered, he was by far the best choice. Castiel was older than Sam, older than most people here, bar Dean. Like for Dean, Sam was the person Castiel was most familiar with out of everyone in the room, so he'd found himself a bit lost when friends had naturally converged into their usual groups. That was probably how or why he and Dean had wound up beside each other on the couch when the pizza had arrived and everyone had sat down to eat.

They'd gotten along pretty well. As far as Dean knew, the guy and Sam had met through their practice of magic, although Dean couldn't remember if it was at a seminar, a workshop, or simply at Stanford's association for licensed magic users. He did remember that Castiel was in his third year of med school, specializing in healing magic.

From what Dean could tell, he was a reserved guy, kind of quiet, but not insecure. His demeanor might be calm, but he clearly knew what he wanted in life and was determined to obtain to it. He would have to be, with the choices he'd made in his studies. Healing magic wasn't the easiest path, both difficult to master and taxing to use. But he was doing it and, from Sam's boasting when he'd briefly butted in on their conversation, he was good at it. He was a bit awkward, his humor coming out in nothing but small bursts of sarcasm so dry Dean was pretty sure half of it had gone right over his head, but he was also careful, always taking a couple seconds to choose his words before he spoke. It was that care, more than anything else, that made Dean turn to him.

That, and the fact that, being the closest thing to a responsible adult here, he was probably the only person in the apartment who was neither drunk nor well on their way there.

Dean caught him in the kitchen. The game of Mario Kart was getting rowdy and Castiel had beaten a cautious retreat to drink a glass of water and get a minute of quiet. Dean made the encounter look like an accident, like he was coming in just to fetch a fresh beer in the fridge—which wasn't too much of a lie, since Sam's roommate Zach had plopped down on the cooler and the second one they'd made out of a bowl was empty, save for cold water and remnants of melted ice-cubes. He nodded at Castiel, who was sitting at the table, opened the fridge and snatched a bottle. Once he had uncapped it and taken his first sip though, he lingered. He threw Castiel an oblique look.

Castiel noticed. Being neither stupid nor inconsiderate, he returned Dean's gaze with a quizzical quirk of eyebrows, his expression open.

"So, scrying," Dean said, leaning against the counter. "That's really something, uh?"

Castiel didn't seem to know what to say to that, and simply tilted his head in a vague form of agreement.

"What did you see?" Dean asked, because contrary to some of Sam's friends, Castiel had remained tight-lipped about his vision. "I mean, it worked, for you, right?"

"It did," Castiel replied. A couple seconds slipped by, during which he stared at his glass in front of him, loosely held between his hands. "I was working," he added. "A shift at the hospital."

A minute frown had formed on his brow, as if something about that didn't sit well with him—which, given where his studies were headed, was a bit puzzling. On any other occasion, Dean might've been tempted to pry, to figure out why Castiel was being so laconic. But this time he simply nodded and took another sip of his beer.

"Okay, cool," he said.

Some part of him was painfully aware of what this might look like—his forced casualness, his struggle to maintain the conversation when it would much rather drop, his obvious and awkward fumbling to make it go _somewhere_. Like this was the lamest attempt at flirting ever, and he was nothing but a complete dork, or a pathetic, idiotic dick who tried way too hard.

Castiel didn't appear to notice. Or, if he did, he chose not to react to it. Not yet. Somehow it helped, and Dean was able to add: "I wasn't sure."

That was when Castiel realized that something was amiss. Maybe it was the way Dean's voice wavered, or the way he kept shifting, or the way he took a too large gulp of beer. Castiel stopped turning his glass between his fingers and looked up.

Dean was unable to meet his eye. The quirked smile he'd forced onto his lips at the start of their conversation was long gone.

"Divination is far from being my area of expertise," Castiel said slowly. "I don't know much about it. But from what I've heard—and what I've seen tonight—it does work. However brief and vague the glimpse it allows is." He paused. "And there'd be no reason for it to not work the same for everyone involved in the same séance."

Dean took that in, trying and probably failing to hide the sinking feeling in his guts. Another mouthful of beer went down his throat, almost choking him. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Castiel's frown deepen.

"Why were you wondering…?" Castiel asked tentatively. His tone changed when all Dean did was shuffle his feet, growing more insistent: "Dean, what did you see?"

Obviously he'd also realized that Dean's reaction after his turn with the scrying mirror—he'd donned on his filthiest smirk before stating "A gentleman doesn't kiss and tell," with enough of a leer that Sam had insisted they move on—had been nothing but a facade. Or maybe Castiel hadn't bought it from the start.

Dean glanced up, and it was the expression on the other man's face that did it, its openness and concern—and the comfort he found in knowing that, in choosing Castiel, he'd chosen right.

"Nothing," he croaked. "I didn't see a goddamned thing."

From the way Castiel's expression faltered, he and Dean had the same suspicion about what this had to mean.

 

*

 

They would've said more, maybe, probably, but in that moment half the party staggered into the kitchen, looking for drinks. The Mario Kart tournament had ended with Rebecca as the uncontested winner, and the other guests, too drunk to feel the burn, were already moving onto other things.

Given that the kitchen was approximately the size of a matchbox—to match the shoebox size of Sam and Zach's apartment—it instantly grew cramped. Someone then had the bright idea of moving the party to the roof. Still unwilling to screw up Sam's big day, Dean hooted along and followed, even though his stomach was in knots. To ignore it he grabbed his brother and helped drag him up the stairs, pretending that Sam was far more impaired than he actually was. After all, even if he wasn't used to drinking, there was no way Sam could be so much of a lightweight that he would've gotten drunk on two beers, not with his full stomach and his sheer body mass. Maybe he was just drunk on happiness, on being right where he wanted to be, studying at Stanford and surrounded by his friends, and on the presence of one Jessica Moore, who had agreed to come to his birthday and still hadn't left. Dean made sure to let Sam go right beside her once the lock had been picked and they'd all reached the roof.

After that, though, since he didn't really know Sam's friends, he soon and easily ended up a bit apart from the group, looking out into the mild Californian night while everyone collapsed into another circle. The moon and stars were out, the lamps and lights trying to outshine them, and yet everything seemed dark and cold.

The sweet-sour smell of weed reached Dean's nose, making him wrinkle it in confusion. Not that it was an unfamiliar smell; in his line of work he was bound to recognize it at once, but that was exactly it. Surely not all of Sam's friends had forgotten about his job.

Glancing back, he briefly toyed with the idea of refreshing their memory, of confiscating the joint just to screw with them. But the temptation left him almost at once. It'd be an asshole move right now, and most of all he didn't feel up for it. Besides, if pot was getting involved and knowing the effect it usually had on a group, Dean would bet that some good old spin-the-bottle wasn't that far off. Then maybe one of Sam's turns would end with the bottle pointing at Jess. That would be something, at least.

Castiel had begged off from getting high too and joined him near the edge of the roof, exuding concern but trying to hide it, awkward as he looked for a topic of conversation. He wasn't very good at it, nor was he helped by the fact that he and Dean were practically strangers. Or that Dean's replies came in nothing but monosyllables, if they came at all.

When his third attempt petered out he gave up on the pretense and faced the issue head on: "What are you going to do?"

It suddenly felt like he was standing far too close. Dean shrugged. "What is there to do?" he said. "I'm going to drive back home and make sure my mom knows I love her before I bite it."

He didn't even know how long that'd be. Brady had said that he'd spelled the mirror to give them a glimpse of their future in four years time, but it could come earlier than that. Fuck.

"Dean," Castiel said, softly scolding.

"What?" he retorted. He stared right into the night, and he wasn't afraid. He _wasn't_. "It's not like I don't know my job's dangerous."

He didn't need to tell Castiel what it was, of course, because he knew how Sam introduced him—"This is Dean, my brother, he is a cop."—, always proud because no matter how condescending people might be, Dean was damn good at his job, and Sam was the first to tell them all about it.

"And it might not even be that that does me in. It might be an illness or— or an accident, what with all the driving I do." Hell, it could happen soon, the following day even, as soon as he hit the road to return to Lawrence. It could be something as simple as a deer crossing the road at night or a second of inattention on a damp patch of asphalt.

If that was the case, he hoped it wouldn't damage his Impala too much. Somehow, the thought of his car being destroyed alongside him only made things worse.

"I'm going to stop by the Grand Canyon on the way back," he said, raising his chin and sticking his hands into his pockets. "All this back and forth between California and Kansas to go see Sam, and I've never seen the damn thing, would you believe it?"

Castiel was silent for the longest time, but Dean could still feel his eyes on him. Maybe the other man was at a loss for what to say, maybe he was picking his words in that careful way of his. Behind them Dean could hear the guffaws of the group, because someone had indeed brought up the idea of spin-the-bottle, and said bottle, spun by Rebecca, had stopped pointing right at her brother. The girl was hiding her face behind her hands when Dean glanced over, her shoulders hunched against her friends' ribbing. Jess sounded like she might actually die from laughter and Sam, against whom she had collapsed, clinging to his shirt not to fall over, looked like the happiest man on earth.

No one even thought to glance in the direction of the two guys standing a little way off. Dean briefly wondered what it looked like, what they looked like, he and Castiel, what the others would think of it if they noticed. Probably not much: as two older people at a party of undergrads, it was only natural that they wouldn't take part in some things and that they'd circle towards each other, playing the responsible adults to their irresponsible kids, like they were already over thirty.

Dean knew he wouldn't even live long enough for that to become accurate, now.

"Would you mind some company on the way there?" Castiel finally asked, much to Dean's surprise. When their eyes met he went on bluntly, "I don't think you should be alone right now." He narrowed his eyes. "Besides, I've never seen the canyon either, and I've been told it's quite the sight."

"Why d'you think I'm planning to go there?" Dean mumbled. A couple seconds passed in silence before he managed to swallow down enough of the knot in his throat to add: "But yeah, you can join if you want." He took advantage of how close Castiel was standing to bump his shoulder against his, a light show of gratefulness.

Because he wouldn't tell Sam about this, he _couldn't_ tell Sam about this, but he also didn't want to be alone right now.

Whistles and catcalls made them turn back towards the rest of the party: Sam had gotten his kiss, after all.

 

*

 

Dean learned one thing at once: Castiel didn't have the first clue about road-tripping. Sure, the guy turned up prepared bright and early the following morning, after Dean had just left Sam with a cup of coffee blacker than ink to recover from his first hangover ever. He'd swapped the slacks and shirt he'd been wearing at the party for a pair of comfortable jeans and a t-shirt. But he also had a trench coat slung over one arm because, apparently, it could 'get chilly in the evening'.

(In a desert. In May. _Sure_.)

Same thing went for the snacks he'd brought: nothing but healthy cereal bars—cardboard, if you asked Dean—and a bottle of water. No chips, no beer, not even a can of soda… But most of all, he'd forgotten his sunglasses. Grave mistake for a beginner, which he realized as soon as they left San Jose behind and the light reverberating off the road and the pale earth beyond brightened, prompting him to rummage through his bag.

Dean, who had enough hours of travel under his belt for that kind of glare not to be an issue, started to grin and hid it by rummaging through his cassette tapes box until he found one to his taste.

"Hey, lighten up," he said after a little while, as _Back in black_ segued into _Shake a leg_. "You're on break. How come you got the time off anyway?" He smirked. "Are you playing hooky, Cassie?"

"If you insist on a nickname, then please stick to Cas," Castiel replied, squinting to ward off the blaze of the sun. "And of course I'm not 'playing hooky'," he added, drawing air quotes with his fingers. "I'm on the second half of my recovery week."

"Your reco— Wait, what, you're sick?"

Castiel frowned at him. "No. It's all part of the—" He paused. "You forgot about me studying healing magic, didn't you?"

"No I didn't!" Dean protested, vexed that that conclusion was the first one Castiel had jumped to. "And what the hell does it have to do with you being sick?"

"I'm not _sick_. My supervisor and I just went through the last sessions of a procedure aiming to cure one of our patients of cancer. The operations were successful, but extremely taxing, as they always are when it comes to healing magic—hence the full week and a half we both have off to rest."

"Well then, shouldn't you be at home doing just that? Should you even have come to Sam's birthday even?"

Castiel didn't move an inch, his expression didn't change, but Dean still found his demeanor shifty when he replied: "It's been three days and I feel fine. Were I at home I'd probably be thinking of going back to my studying. That's what usually happens. I thought I'd make an exception for once."

Dean suddenly remembered why exactly Castiel had decided to accompany him, why what little sleep he could've scored after Sam's birthday party had been dreadful despite his exhaustion and the drinks he'd had. He was only too happy when the tape ran out right in this second and he had to take it out to turn it over. "Yeah well," he said as he pushed it back into the player. "Just don't die on me, okay?"

"As long as you don't die on me either," Castiel retorted, still squinting at the road.

Dean blinked, incredulous, before he let out an involuntary guffaw. It echoed on Castiel's lips in form of a faint smile as he relaxed—and Dean realized that Castiel had been worried he might've pushed too far.

He needn't have worried. After all, in such situations laughter was better than the alternative.

 

*

 

They stopped for lunch and, shortly thereafter, at a station to get gas. Castiel took advantage of that break to peruse their shelf of cheap sunglasses, staring them down for two long minutes before choosing a pair seemingly at random and buying it without trying it on.

He didn't even get to use it: when they hit the road again, he demonstrated what the combined efforts of his work, the rising temperature, and a full stomach could do by falling right asleep. One second he was sitting up, looking through the window at the landscape sliding by, the next he was out like a light, sinking down into his seat. The music still playing through the speakers obviously wasn't bothering him, but Dean turned it down anyway. The faint strings of guitar were almost drowned out by the continuous rumble of the motor and of the tires on the asphalt. The further they drove from San Jose, the less cars they crossed path with, and before long there was nothing but the pale haze of the desert around them, with an endless stretch of road blurring in the heat.

It was moments like these Dean loved most on long drives, especially when he wasn't alone. Castiel might've been asleep but he was still present, his body occupying the space, his deep breaths mingling with the Impala's purr. The fingers of his left hand, resting lax on the seat beside his thigh, twitched from time to time. Dean kept catching the movement out of the corner of his eye. It made him smile.

"Why healing magic, though?" he asked a couple of hours later. Midday was long gone and they'd left I-5 for highway 58. The sun hung lower in the sky, throwing lengthening shadows under the bushes, onto the edge of the road, and deepening the earthy yellow of the sand and stones. Castiel had just woken up with a deep breath and a lot of confused blinking, prompting Dean's question. Dean didn't know much about magic as a whole, or about medicine, but he'd always heard that the combination of the two was incredibly hard to master, that it took a lot out of people, sometimes even in vain because sometimes the illness remained the strongest, the quickest.

His question was followed by silence. When he glanced over he saw a thoughtful expression on Castiel's face.

"Strong magical affinity runs in my family," he finally replied. "And I wanted to help people."

Dean let out a faint grunt. "Same here. I mean, without the magic part."

"Not even for a binding spell?"

"Nope," he said. "Not unless it comes pre-packaged. Anything else, that's what we have Charlie for." She wasn't the only magic user at the station, but she definitely was the best by far.

From there, the conversation devolved into them talking about their work and colleagues, which inevitably ended up with Dean bragging about them and about Sam, because why not? Not everyone was well on their way to scoring a spot in grad school at Stanford with a full scholarship, after all.

"Your parents must be proud," Castiel murmured with a smile.

"Mom is, yeah. Dad, well. He died several years ago, before Sam even knew he'd gotten in. A stroke."

The silence came back, now heavier. Dean knew Castiel was thinking the same thing as he, without even voicing it: that maybe that'd be how he would go too. Just like that, all of a sudden, in his sleep.

"You should go for a check-up," Castiel said. Dean was quickly understanding that he wasn't one to beat around the bush. "Just in case."

In case he was sick, or about to be, and could prevent things from going awry by acting now—because wouldn't that be ironic and stupid if that was the case, but he refused to take what he'd seen, or rather not seen, as a warning and did nothing?

Who knew, maybe these terrible seconds of utter silence and darkness could end up being good for something.

"Yeah," he said thickly.

The agreement was weak, but Castiel didn't press the matter, didn't try to extort a promise out of him. For that Dean was grateful.

 

*

 

After eight hours of driving they stopped for the night at a motel near Kingman. Castiel didn't oppose any resistance to them booking a single room with two queen beds which, Dean found out, was less about him being comfortable with a near-stranger and more about him not caring at all: as soon as he was through the door he divested himself of his shoes and socks, went to brush his teeth then shucked off his jeans before sliding into one of the beds where he settled with a sigh. Two seconds later he was asleep.

They hadn't even eaten dinner.

Dean went to buy himself a burger and brought it back to the room with something Castiel could easily reheat in case he woke up with a case of the munchies. He ate while watching a little bit of TV, the sound turned low so as not to bother his roommate. A long drive, even a quiet one, always left him a little bit keyed up, and he needed to unwind.

He often found his gaze straying away from the screen to settle on the man sleeping in the bed beside his. In the semi-darkness he couldn't see much, especially not with how Castiel had burrowed into the sheets so that only the upper half of his face stuck out, smushed into his folded pillow. With each breath he took—slow and deep, ending on the faintest of snores—he seemed to sink a little bit deeper into the mattress, as if dragged down hard by exhaustion now that he wasn't awake to fight it.

Not for the first time, Dean wondered what the hell he was doing there. And why Dean had let him tag along. Hadn't he already been selfish enough by spoiling Sam's birthday party for him with all his problems?

Angry at himself, he left the room and went to a bar on the other side of the street. He drank one beer, two, but then managed to reason he'd only worsen the situation by getting shit-faced, or by taking up the blond chick in the corner up on the offer he could see in her eyes. He came back, his tail between his legs. Castiel hadn't moved an inch.

Dean took off his jeans and flannel shirt, changed t-shirts and laid down in the second bed. He thought it'd take him a while to fall asleep, but the combined effects of the lack of sleep, of the long hours of driving, of alcohol and of Castiel's regular, soothing breathing dragged him under long before his thoughts could catch up with him.

 

*

 

_There was darkness. And there was light—but a weak light, dreary, dismal. Dean could barely make out the shape of the creature in front of him, but he felt Its presence. It was old. Very old._

_And terrifying._

_"Who were you?" It asked. As It did so It leaned forward, revealing gaunt features, skin that was paper-thin and worn, a tapestry of wrinkles in some places, stretched to tearing in others, enhancing the sharpness of Its bones. Its eyes remained obscured, nothing but two dark bottomless pits Dean couldn't look away from. "What did you live for?"_

_Its voice was quiet and slow, like It had all the time in the world. Because It had all the time in the world._

_Dean couldn't move. Around them there was nothing but pitch black emptiness—the same he found within himself as he tried to remember something, anything; as he looked for an answer that, he felt, would determine everything._

_"I—" his voice trembled. He swallowed. "I don't know."_

_"Oh," the creature said. It sounded surprised; disappointed too, maybe. "Well, in that case…"_

_Its skeletal hand moved, two bony fingers rising, pausing as if to give Dean one last chance and, when he didn't take it, falling—_

 

*

 

Dean woke up with a faint gasp, confused for a second by the unfamiliar ceiling above him. It was enough for the dream to slither out of his memory, leaving nothing but traces of something murky and suffocating in its wake.

He lay unmoving, staring upwards, hand clenched in the sheet over his chest. His heart was beating hard and fast, his breathing labored. After a while, his body let go of the tension he couldn't remember the cause of. He closed his eyes and sighed.

Castiel was still out to the world, still nothing but a lump buried amongst his sheets and pillow. He didn't stir when Dean stood up and went to the bathroom.

It was a relief to get rid of the slight film of sweat covering his body, and with it, of the after-echoes of something he couldn't put his finger on but was hesitant to prod. Refreshened, he got dressed and, as Castiel still showed no sign of waking up, went out to fetch them some breakfast.

He took his time, but was still relieved to find Castiel sitting up in bed when he came back carrying two cups of coffee to go and a bag of donuts. The other man was staring, or rather glaring into space, like something had profoundly offended him. His hair was a mess. His arms and stubbled cheeks were deeply indented with marks from his sheets and pillow.

Dean recognized the looks of someone who was decidedly not a morning person. He would've found it adorable, if Castiel's head hadn't swiveled in his direction and he hadn't become the target of his dark scowl.

"You have coffee," Castiel said in a voice that was even more low and gravelly than usual. His tone put the sentence halfway between a question and a threat. Dean felt really glad he'd decided to bring their breakfast back to their room instead of eating it at the diner and texting Castiel to join him when he was awake.

Castiel took the cup from him none too gently, breathed it in but didn't relax like so many people did. Dean gingerly sat down on the other bed.

"You okay?" he asked. "Looks like your batteries aren't all recharged yet, you crashed down hard."

"I always crash down hard," Castiel rumbled. "According to my sister a plane could crash into my room and I wouldn't notice." He took a sip of his coffee, squinting. "She's probably right."

"You got a sister?" Dean asked, because he didn't remember Castiel mentioning her at all, not even when he himself had raved about Sam.

"Yes. Now shut up," Castiel snapped, putting an end to their conversation.

O-kay. Dean had never met such a bad case of morning grump. He raised his hands appeasingly and retreated to the small table under the window to eat his donuts in silence. Castiel drank his coffee, then stumbled up to shuffle into the bathroom without a word nor a glance.

 

*

 

Fortunately Castiel was a bit more human, or at least social, when he came back out, hair damp and skin rosy. He ate the last donut, which Dean had managed not to wolf down like the others, helped tidying up the room a little bit and packed his bag before he followed Dean out to the Impala to put it in the trunk.

Reaching the southern rim of the Grand Canyon took them a little over four hours. Once there, and on Castiel's insistence, they checked into one of the hotels—and that was another sign that the guy had no idea how to properly road trip: he'd looked up the number and _called ahead_ that very morning to make sure they wouldn't end up having to sleep in the car.

Dean made sure to be clearly seen rolling his eyes.

They bought lunch and took the shuttle to the main visitor center. From there, Castiel—armed with all the flyers and maps he'd been able to filch in the building—directed them onto a five minutes walk until they reached Mather Point, so they could enjoy the view while they ate. And what a view it was.

They stood on an overhang, and from there the horizon opened. Up was the sky, bright blue, almost electric, and down the canyon itself, rows upon rows of mountains interspersed with head-spinning gorges and cliffs that had been carved by millennia of water long gone. In the haze the strata lines stood out starkly, deep red and orange, yellow and brown, tawny, ochre, a whole palette. Rare shrubs clung to the rocks, more numerous near the tops where they formed a dark green crown.

In between two mouthfuls of his sandwich, Castiel started explaining how the landscape had formed, prompting Dean to glance over at him. He was leaning against the rust red fence, his free hand moving and pointing at what he was describing, and yet Dean found himself unable to follow his finger to look at what he should. Castiel had donned on the sunglasses he'd bought the day previous, a cheap pair of aviators that weirdly suited him. They enhanced the sharpness of his nose and jaw that the scruff he was sporting—since he hadn't bothered to shave that morning—didn't mellow the slightest bit. He was still frowning faintly, squinting at the view; despite their glasses, the sun remained blinding.

Dean tore his gaze away, feeling warm and awkward in a way that had nothing to do with the growing heat. He tried to focus on Castiel's words and not on his voice, on what he was showing him and not on how he was doing it. But, as Castiel commented on the different colors they could see and the different types of soil they betrayed, Dean's mind slowed down to a halt and a question emerged: why?

Why was he trying to ignore what he was feeling? Why was he pretending not to notice Castiel's voice, his features, his body?

Because he'd always done so. Because it wasn't things he should be noticing in another man. Because he was ashamed, and afraid—he'd always been.

But why? What was he so afraid of? Of the way people would look at him if they knew? Of losing his family, his friends? Of his life changing, maybe for the worst?

Of himself?

Soon—he didn't even know how soon—none of that would matter. He wouldn't exist anymore. And he'd lose everything anyway.

The question was: how did he want to spend the time that he'd left before that? He'd always thought that by resisting the pull he sometimes felt towards other men, he was preserving something. That he was being strong, that he was being what he should be: normal. A real man. But he was realizing that he didn't know what that meant anymore. Right now, willing that part of himself away didn't feel like being strong. It didn't feel like being a real man. It felt like being a coward; a liar.

(" _Who were you?_ ")

Maybe he should change that, for the last few months, years he would spend on this earth. Maybe he should stop ignoring what some guys made him feel, instead of burying it deep in shame and fear. Maybe he could start right now by admitting to himself that Castiel, in this moment, was definitely one of those guys.

He made himself breathe quietly and let himself look. He stayed discreet about it, as he didn't want to make things awkward. But with Castiel now describing the final steps of erosion—seriously, where and when had he read about that, he was supposed to be a _med_ student—it wasn't difficult to have an excuse to watch him; to watch the wisps of hair falling limply onto his forehead, the folds between his eyebrows, the movement of his slightly chapped lips as he spoke, the smatter of facial hair reaching down to his Adam's apple, the base of his throat peeking from the open collar of his short-sleeved shirt, already glistening with a thin film of sweat…

In the end, Dean didn't get a word of the undoubtedly very accurate and interesting explanation of how the Great Canyon had come to be. With the help of a few strategically placed 'uh uh', 'right' and 'no, really?', he made sure Castiel didn't notice. Yet he felt enriched, in a way. Enlightened.

They finished their lunch, but instead of making them leave the viewpoint, Castiel took out a camera and started taking pictures. For one of his cousins, he said, who always raved about how she wanted to see this place.

"Just so you can make her green with envy?" Dean teased, ready to warn Castiel that it was a dangerous path to tread.

Castiel shook his head. "I need photographic evidence," he said, clicking away and checking that the results weren't blurry. "Now that I've been here, I know the way and the layout of the place, and there are higher chances that her parents will allow me to take her one day. They certainly won't do it themselves."

"You make them sound like the worst overprotective bores ever."

"They are," Castiel said. "Which is understandably quite tiresome on her, but hopefully I can help make it more bearable so that she doesn't turn to recreational drugs instead. I need a picture in which I can be seen, could you take it?"

Dean, a bit confused by the non sequitur, nodded and took the camera. A minute was needed for him to figure it out and, when he raised it to aim, Castiel was striking a pose: leaning back against the fence, arms crossed, head high as he looked to the side with the imperious frown of a lord looking over his realm, or of a general surveying a battlefield. Dean snapped a picture, but instead of declaring it done he made a crack that successfully broke the other man's composure. On the second picture Castiel was smiling through a huff, on the third one grinning, chin tucked against his chest as he peered up at Dean with fake exasperation overlaid with amusement.

They were very nice pictures. Looking down at them, Dean felt proud and was tempted to ask for a copy.

He didn't, of course. He simply handed the camera back to Castiel and, having gotten his approval on the pictures, turned away to leave the viewpoint.

They went back to the visitor center, where they each drank a whole bottle of water and filled them again for the afternoon. Castiel wanted them to go on a walk along one of the trails.

Before that, he insisted that he and Dean put on some sunscreen.

"Protection is important," he said, waving the bottle around when Dean balked. "You don't want to end up with skin cancer."

Dean snorted. "Well, there's no need to worry, since we both know there won't be enough time for things to come to _that_."

That was the wrong thing to say. The only warning he got was a slight narrowing of Castiel's eyes before the guy grabbed him by the shoulder and sprayed the lotion right onto his forehead, his cheek. Dean reflexively squeezed his eyes shut and flailed, but Castiel caught his arm in a vice grip, spraying that too. Dean then realized resistance was futile, and grumpily held out his other arm for Castiel to aim the bottle at. He even started spreading the sunscreen on his own, grumbling, until that _sneak_ sprayed one last dollop onto his nape without warning, making him squeak.

Dean would've taken his revenge, but Castiel smoothly evaded his first two attempts at snatching him, and after that, getting rid of the big globs of cream that made him look like an idiot took precedence.

Fortunately, Castiel then deemed them ready and they took off. The trail led them eastwards along the sheer drop, over which Dean was very careful not to lean. He wasn't scared of heights—not _really_. They just made him kind of uncomfortable, especially when nothing but a flimsy rail—if there even was one—separated him from them. And this was right after he'd had a vision that plainly informed him he was going to bite it soon, too. There was no reason for him to actually make it easy for the universe. He was just being, you know, careful.

Avoiding to look down didn't prevent him from seeing the rest of the scenery though, and the way its configuration completely reordered itself within a five minutes walk due to the change in perspective. Castiel kept their pace leisurely, stopping frequently to take more pictures or to simply lean on the metal fence, staring out at the open space in front of them.

The sun had long left its zenith by the time they reached their goal. The trail went on, but did so by  throwing itself off the cliff and zigzagging down into the canyon itself, something they didn't have the time—or, in Dean's case, the will—to do. Instead they found a place to sit for a short while, watching how the shadows had added themselves to the display, and talking. When the feeling of getting burned into a crisp became too strong, they drank the last of their water and walked to the bus stop to wait for the shuttle.

"That was nice," Castiel commented after a couple minutes of silence.

"Yeah," Dean agreed.

Some part of him just wished he'd gotten to see that place simply because he'd wanted to, and not because he'd found out that his time was running out.

 

*

 

Back at their hotel—or rather, their _lodge_ —they ate two large burgers for dinner to recover from the walk. After that, Castiel dragged them right back out to see the view on the Canyon from the village and watch the sunset. It looked like it had caught on fire: oblique rays of gold lit up the vibrant red of the earth, standing out against the darkened pits of the Canyon itself. As the sun sank beneath the horizon, the flames it threw onto the rock and sand went out one after the other, until only the uppermost peaks still blazed—but even they faltered and disappeared in the end, leaving nothing but shadows.

It did get chilly then, and fast, the warm breeze blowing up from the Canyon rapidly fading as the heat of the day evaporated, left with nothing to hold it back. Dean suggested that they go back to their room, but Castiel, who had taken his trench coat with him when they'd dropped by the lodge earlier, wanted to watch the stars appear in the sky.

Dean tried to stay, but after five minutes of freezing despite the shirt he'd put back on over his t-shirt, he gave up and trudged back to the lodge alone. Of course as soon as he was through the door he felt like an idiot and a wuss, as well as at a loss for what to do.

Not two minutes later, he was back out the door and headed to the parking lot. The Impala was still there, already cool to the touch when he ran a soothing hand over her hood, but inside she was still buzzing with the heat she'd accumulated during the day. Dean fetched his old leather jacket from the back seat and patted the car goodnight.

Castiel didn't comment when he drew up to him again, didn't move. He kept staring up at the sky. Dean followed his example.

It had darkened to a deep blue dotted with the bright prickle of stars. The more Dean looked, the more of them he could see, countless little dots returning his gaze, twinkling as if to say hello. A couple of them were moving, satellites silently circling far far overhead.

Everything was dark and quiet. From time to time, a car would drive past on the road behind them, or a small cluster of people would go back to their lodge, exhausted after a whole day hike. Dean and Castiel didn't move, didn't talk. They stayed there, until the full moon rose in the Southeast, replacing the bright gold of the sun with its own faint glow. It brushed against the edges of the Canyon, its peaks and plateaus, carving its relief all over again in shades of black, blue and silver.  
It did the same to Castiel's face, turning his features into a play of shadows and ghostly light while he peacefully gazed at the folds of the desert. It darkened his eyes but enhanced his sharp cheekbones, his nose. It suited him.

"This is nice too," Dean mumbled, unable to look away now that he'd started.

Castiel smiled.

 

 

*

 

Dean had been afraid Castiel would drag him out of bed before sunrise the next morning so they could watch that too, but when he spontaneously woke up, the day had already begun and Castiel was still nothing but a ball-shaped lump in the other bed. Dean stood up and showered—at which point he found out that, sunscreen or not, he had some mean sunburns on his nose, nape and forearms, vying for space with a riot of freckles. Great.

He dug out his oldest, softest flannel shirt and went to fetch two cups of coffee. He left one on Castiel's bedside table; the other one he took with him around the back of the lodge, where he could see the Canyon, pale and quiet in the early light.

He felt a pinch of regret, wishing they could stay a little bit longer. But he had to be back in Lawrence in time to go back to work, and Castiel's recovery period was drawing to an end.

He was swallowing his last sip when the man joined him, showered but in no state to talk yet. Dean stayed silent, let him drink his coffee and didn't say a word while they packed up, loaded the car, and left.

He drove them to Flagstaff, where Castiel would take a Greyhound for the long ride back to California. The bus wouldn't leave before 1:45 p.m., so they used the time they had to walk around the city and find a nice place to eat.

Things grew a bit awkward when they returned to the bus station, in the last minutes before Castiel's departure. What do you say to a guy you barely know, but whom you've spent the past three days with? Dean didn't know.

"That was nice," he managed. "So, you know. Thanks."

They both knew he wasn't talking about Castiel more or less organizing their time at the Canyon. Castiel cut right to it. "Will you be okay for the rest of the journey?"

The sunburn on Dean's nape chafed when he drove and his legs ached a bit after their hike, moderate as it had been, but he'd manage. As long as he ignored the entirely unfair fact that Castiel, who hadn't put on half as much sunscreen as he, had gotten nothing but a slight yet healthy tan. "Sure," he said, although he knew Castiel wasn't talking about that.

Castiel didn't let the matter go. Dean was coming to realize he was of the stubborn kind. "Give me your phone," he ordered.

"What?"

"Your phone," Castiel repeated, imperiously holding out a hand, palm up. When Dean let his cell drop into it, he opened it and started typing. "I am adding my phone number to your contacts. I expect you to update me on your progress and inform me once you arrive back home."

"… Okay," Dean said, blinking.

When he returned the phone, Castiel caught Dean's gaze and held it for several long seconds, squinting faintly like it would ensure Dean did good on his promise. Then he turned away and climbed into his bus.

 

*

 

The worst was that Castiel's imperiousness worked: when Dean finally arrived home and collapsed on his couch, knackered, he quickly texted him before he even called his mom.

 _Good_ , Castiel had replied once Dean hung up on a promise to drop by Mary's house the following day. Then: _Thank you for your message_.

Dean stared bemusedly at the screen, wondering if the text had been written out of sheer politeness or if the guy had honestly been worried and was grateful to know that Dean had arrived safe and sound.

He needn't have worried, though. Dean had paced himself, driving from Flagstaff to Lawrence in three days, stopping for the night after six hours on the road at most instead of powering on to make it back in less.

But maybe Castiel had been worried about something slightly different. _Sure_ , Dean had said, when Castiel had asked if he'd be okay, alone for the rest of the way back—but they'd both known that it was a lie. How could it have been anything else, especially once that very same question had starkly reminded Dean of the reason why he might not be, of what he'd tried to avoid thinking about up until then?

Three days of lonely driving were more than enough for the realization to dawn, for its implications to settle in Dean's mind and take root. And that was exactly what had happened. Slowly but inevitably, every connection and consequence had come to him, like on a case where his thoughts followed the trail of clues and evidence towards a terrible conclusion. He'd seen how short four years were—but maybe, probably, longer than whatever he would have. How swiftly they'd fly by. How everything he'd planned or hoped for was in vain: he wouldn't live long enough for any of it to happen. How ugly it would all end, because no one died peacefully in their sleep in their late twenties. How much pain it would bring his family, maybe even his friends.

How hard it would be for him, to keep living knowing all that.

Maybe Castiel had been worried about what could happen in Dean's head during those long hours of driving with nothing to keep him company but for these thoughts. Maybe he'd worried that panic, the kind that came slow and soft but was all the more insidious and paralyzing, would spread through him and make him do something stupid. That after several hours, several days, as miles flew by and another day ended, as the sun sucked all colors away with it when it sank beyond the horizon, as that thought pressed down against his temples until his head hurt, onto his ribcage until he could barely breathe, he'd realize that the road he was on was a one-way street and would only lead to one thing. That he'd start thinking that maybe, _just maybe_ , it would be better, easier, to end it all now. To make it stop, to spare himself a journey that wouldn't change anything to the conclusion but would be spent _knowing_ —for weeks, for months, for _years_ —knowing and choking on the fear of that last moment he knew was coming, haunted by the shadow of death darkening his steps, swallowing the brightness of the sun, turning smiles sinister and hollowing every burst of laughter, reducing all flavors and colors to ashes.

If Castiel had been worried about that, he'd been right to be. Because Dean _had_ thought about it, for a second (or two, or more). The car had been rumbling on, faint music had been playing in the background—both drowned by the cacophony of his thoughts until there had been nothing beyond but silence, empty, stretching out for miles. There had been the road, the hypnotic slide of the asphalt, of its markings, of the bushes bordering it, and in the middle of his anxiety Dean had felt the strangest sort of calm seep into him, almost welcome but also dark and cold. It had come riding on a thought— _Maybe that's how I'll be going, maybe that's how I was always supposed to be going. Maybe it can be that easy. That painless_ —and for that second (or two, or more) his wheels might have veered off course, and his hands might not have righted them, and he might have seen the edge of the road coming closer, the ditch, the trees, with nothing but detachment—until suddenly something had come, he didn't even remember what, a stream of guitar at the beginning of a new song on the radio, a bird abruptly taking flight in front of the windshield, the rumble of his wheels hitting the border strips… All at once he'd snapped out of it, and swerved to the left, and it had been sheer luck no other vehicle had been coming in the other direction.

He'd slowed down and stopped at the edge of the road a hundred yards farther. He'd put the car into park, made sure his lamps were on, pulled the handbrake and pressed his forehead against the steering wheel. "The hell, man," he'd muttered. "The _hell_."

With trembling hands, he'd turned up the volume on the radio and he'd listened to Led Zeppelin with his eyes closed, leaning back against the familiar seat, breathing deeply in, then out, then in. When the tape had come to an end he'd rummaged through his cassettes until he'd found one of the less used ones, missing its label. He'd put it in and had carefully put the car back into gear while the first words of _Hey Jude_ had streamed through the speakers. He'd listened to it, then to _Here comes the sun_ , and to all the Beatles songs his mom had compiled for him so long ago until he'd reached the next motel.

He'd stopped there, spooked, not trusting himself at the wheel anymore. He'd lingered at the front desk, forcing a short chat with the middle-aged tenant, and once inside his room he'd turned the TV on, sat on the bed and rubbed his clammy hands against his face, the knot in his throat so tight it had been painful.

He'd taken his phone out of his pocket and spent several long minutes looking down at the screen, tempted to call his mom and yet hesitant.

In the end he'd made himself call Sam instead.

"Miss me already?" his little brother had teased, and the sheer normalcy of it had helped Dean settle a bit.

"Kinda," he'd admitted instead of the expected 'You wish, bitch'. He'd been careful to keep his tone light, though. As soon as Sam's voice had come through the phone, light and carefree, he'd known he wouldn't be able to tell him anything. "Thing is, driving ain't quite the same without my copilot stinking up the cockpit."

His declaration had prompted a brief silence, Sam having been caught off-guard by his honesty. But not enough to make him suspicious, fortunately.

"Yeah," he'd simply agreed. "But hey, you know what? I'll have some time at the beginning of summer, after LSAT but before my internship starts. We could do something then."

Dean had blinked, and grinned. "Hell yeah."

He lived for road trips with his little brother. So he'd grabbed onto that plan and fed it to his faltering determination. No matter what was meant to happen, he wouldn't let death take him before summer. Not now that he'd promised Sam.

After all, if death was coming for him, there was no reason he should make it easy for it to catch him.

That had been on the second day.

He'd been luckier on the third one. The end of his journey had been in sight, and shortly after he'd crossed the border into Kansas he'd found a hitchhiker walking along the road. The young girl—Kate, he'd later learned—had been wary at first, unsurprisingly, her hand closing around the pendent glowing white and blue at the base of her throat—a gesture meant to draw attention to the fact that she was a licensed magic user as much as to reassure herself. Dean had shown her his badge and had let her deliberate and choose without pressurizing her for time.

In the end she'd gotten in. Dean had ignored the look she'd given him when she'd recognized the song playing—from the same tape as the day previous, so sue him for still needing some damn comfort, he'd sure deserved it. He'd asked a few questions, prompting her to talk. It hadn't taken much get the conversation going, and when he'd dropped her off at Topeka, he'd given her his number, in case she ever got in trouble and needed someone on her side.

"You're one of _those_ , aren't you?" Kate had said with a quirk of eyebrows.

He'd shrugged. "Guilty as charged," he'd replied.

She'd smiled and waved, so it couldn't have been that bad. Once he'd left Topeka his thoughts could've taken a turn for the worst, but by then he'd almost been home. He'd focused on all the familiar landmarks he could find until he'd arrived.

The phone buzzed in his hand, bringing him back to the present. Castiel had sent him another message.

 _Remember to book an appointment at the hospital for that checkup_.

Dean snorted. He felt better now, less run down and more drowsy, cushioned by his couch, safe at home. _Oh my god_ , he typed back. _You're one of those, aren't you?_

 

*

 

They talked for a while, until Castiel abruptly announced, _I am going to bed now. Goodnight_. And promptly stopped answering Dean's texts.

"O- _kay_ ," Dean muttered with another snort, but set about to doing the same. After all, he only had one more day before he was due back at work, and he didn't want his mom to think anything was amiss when she'd see him in the morning.

He thought that'd be the end of it, too. That Castiel would go back to his studies, to his shifts at the hospital, to his friends and family, and that he'd simply forget about the poor guy who'd ruined Sam's birthday for him and let him hitch a ride to the Grand Canyon. It would only have been natural, after all. No matter how nice their outing had been, or how easy it had felt to talk to him, even to open up about some things Dean rarely shared, they were barely more than strangers. Castiel certainly had other things, better things to do than think about some hick all the way in Kansas.

Yet in thinking so, Dean was wrong.

Over the next few days, then weeks, Castiel kept texting him. At first he mostly nagged Dean about the medical appointment he'd advised him to take, because clearly he took his Hippocratic oath way too seriously. But then he'd started to speak about other things too: how his cousin Hael had liked the pictures he'd taken, how he was back on shift and his supervisor looked worse for wear, how Sam was doing when he saw him in their little witch club—even though he disliked Dean calling it that—and so on. With an increasing frequency he sent texts containing random considerations about the strangest things, like whenever a thought popped into his head he needed to share it with someone, and for some reason, that someone was now Dean.

All of it was nice but… unexpected.

"Earth to Dean."

Dean snapped out of his thoughts, finding Jo standing in front of his desk, tapping the edge of a file against its surface. She quirked her eyebrows at him, pointedly looking down at the phone he was holding in his lap. While having the chief of police's daughter as a coworker could be the source of a lot of fun—like when they'd let that dick Gordon believe that she'd only gotten the job because of her pretty smile and a hefty dose of nepotism just so she could ream his ass when they'd been paired up during that training course—sometimes it wasn't that great; you never knew how often she and her mom talked, and how much of it was about the people at the station. Like, for instance, who had taken up the bad habit of checking their messages during work hours.

"Cap wants to see you," was all Jo said, because she knew she was holding all the power here. "Asap," she added, probably guessing how tempted Dean felt to push it and find an answer to Cas' latest message.

So Dean let go and stood up. He even made a detour by the locker room to do the responsible thing and put his phone away.

When he knocked on the open door of Captain Singer's office, the man barely looked up from the mountain range of papers and books covering his desk. "Have a seat," he said, gruff as usual. "And close the door."

"In that order?" Dean quipped.

Singer sent him a look. Dean wisely shut up, closed the door and took the offered seat.

He expected—well, he didn't know what, to be honest. Maybe a dressing down for using his personal phone while on shift, because even though he'd tried to be discreet, Bobby Singer had eyes and ears everywhere; maybe a new case, since the one he'd been assigned to had been definitely solved the week previous—but then where was Benny, with whom Dean was usually paired up?

What he didn't expect was silence. A heavy silence, while Singer leaned back in his chair with his hands folded on his belly and watched him. Dean tried to bear the stare—clearly nothing but a classic intimidation technique—but as it went on and on and _on_ , he couldn't help but shift in his seat, if only a little.

"How you doing, boy?" Singer finally asked, right as Dean was about to cave in and break the quiet himself.

Dean's eyebrows shot up. It wasn't like their Captain to get into anything touchy-feely; his slightly constipated look was proof enough of that. "Fine," he replied automatically.

"Oh yeah?" Singer said, voice heavy with skepticism. "'Cause you sure don't look it."

He was still looking Dean right in the eye. Dean made an effort not to falter, not to swallow too obviously. He'd thought he was doing fine, or at least doing a fine job at pretending so. But clearly it wasn't the case, if Singer had noticed, and noticed enough to grow worried and decide he'd white-knuckle his way through such an awkward conversation.

 _Shit_.

"Well, I'm a bit tired," Dean said, hoping that giving up that little tidbit of information would be enough to satisfy his superior. "I've been having a harder time than usual getting back into the rhythm after my break." He tried for a smile, tried to make it half cocky, half embarrassed.

Singer wasn't fooled. "That so."

Suddenly Dean knew, _felt_ , that the Captain was thinking about the day off Dean had taken since then, that he had his suspicions about what it had been for, even though he hadn't asked nor commented at the time.

Because with Castiel's constant nagging—it had become his favored conversation opener for a while—it hadn't taken Dean long to cave in and go to the damned hospital for that checkup. If only because Castiel was right: it would be profoundly stupid if Dean had something and could avoid dying from if the doctors noticed its presence on time.

Only, when Dean had come back a few days later for his results, he'd been presented with a clean bill of health.

"Your cholesterol levels are a bit high," the doctor had said, "which we'll have to monitor given your family history." That had been a nice, very clinical way to refer to his dad and granddad on his mother's side both dying from a stroke before they'd reached sixty. "But as long as you dial back on saturated fats—you know, meat, dairy products, anything deep fried—eat a little more greens and keep doing sports, you should be just fine."

She'd smiled, and blinked in confusion at Dean's less than enthused reaction. Normal patients probably showed a lot more joy, or at least relief, upon hearing such good news.

Castiel had been bummed out too. Clearly he too had been holding out hope for something that'd be amiss, but also curable. Catching it in time would have resolved the matter entirely. He'd even started tentatively suggesting that Dean go back for a more thorough battery of tests, among others several screenings for cancer.

"Hell no," Dean had interrupted. "Dude, surely for that kind of tests you have to have a reason beyond a, a _hunch_. I don't have any family antecedents, or any apparent health issues, nothing that'd warrant it. Plus don't, like, half these tests fuck you up?"

"There are several nefarious side-effects, yes, but—"

"Plus, let's be realistic," Dean had cut him off again. "The chances of me having a cancer grown enough to kill me at freaking twenty-five are a lot slimmer than those of me getting killed on the job, or on the road." Something he saw or heard of nearly every day.

"I know," Castiel had admitted, stiff as a board. It had been clear he felt helpless, and hated it.

"Plus, I'd take dying in a car crash over withering away in a hospital room any day. It's far more classy."

"I don't see what in this situation makes you think it's a good idea to joke about it," Castiel had retorted, earnest, almost angry, all ruffled and indignant and not appreciating Dean's humor in the least.

"The fact that this is a situation _I_ 'm in," Dean had said. "If I can't even say awful things about it, then I'm definitely screwed. Look, Cas, I'll be careful, okay? But there's not much I can do here."

"So that's it?" Castiel had asked. "You'll just, what, carry on like usual?"

"And live like there's no tomorrow," Dean had smirked.

Castiel had harrumphed.

Dean had felt a spark of irritation. "Well, I'm certainly not going to stop living my life just 'cause it might be dangerous. I already knew that, long before that dick brought out his fucking mirror. So yeah, ex-fucking-cuse me, but I'm going to fucking live."

Castiel hadn't had anything to say to that.

But for all the bravado Dean had show, it hadn't been easy. It wasn't easy. Because he too had been holding out hope that there'd be a magical cure—or something to magically cure. And now that hope was gone, snuffed out like a measly candle, and he felt… trapped. All too aware of what was going to happen, ignorant of how, and with nothing he could do to stop it, or change it.

"Look," he told Singer, who was still watching, trying to stare a confession out of him. "I'm sorry if all this had a bad impact on my performance. I'll do better, I swear."

"That's not what I'm saying," Singer pointed out. "And not what I'm asking."

Another silence followed—stubborn on Dean's side, because sure as hell wasn't going to unravel his life story in front of his superior; awkward and irritated on Bobby's side, because he knew he couldn't force Dean to reveal something he considered a private matter, since apparently it didn't affect his job too bad, and because he really wasn't that good at that whole caring business either.

"Just take care of yourself, understood?" he finally relented, gruff and disgruntled. "And go fetch you partner, I got something for you."

Dean was out of his seat like a spring, in the corridor a second later. But when he reached the doorway to the main room, he couldn't help but slow down and pause. A lot of his colleagues were here: Nancy fielding phone calls, Donna offering sweets to a bunch of teenagers trying very hard to look like tough tugs but steadily failing under the assault of her shining smile, Charlie at her desk poring over the electronic files Ash had salvaged from a burnt piece of evidence, their senior detective Rufus pretending that he didn't have time for Jo's questions but not minding that much since he hadn't sent her packing yet, the patrol coming back in after the shift change and heading to Captain Mills' office for their report… All these people he knew and saw nearly everyday and liked and worked with and was proud to work with… Only now he knew it wouldn't be for much longer, or at least nowhere as long as he'd planned.

He couldn't help but wonder how they'd do, once he was gone.

It took Garth barreling into him from behind—the guy never checked where he was going—to snap him out of his thoughts. He shook himself and went to fetch Benny.

 

*

 

It was like this:

Most of the time, half the time, Dean was doing okay. Really. He was okay during his shifts, okay when he ate lunch, or dinner, or breakfast with his colleagues, okay while he ran errands or watched TV; as long as he had things to keep him busy, to keep him distracted, he was okay.

Mostly.

But then sometimes, often, something would happen—he never knew exactly what prompted it. He'd be filing a report, hesitating between two packages of ground beef, driving down a street he rarely took, changing channels, rifling through old files for a case and somehow, for no apparent reason, that thought would slither back in, coil around his leg, run up his spine and curl across his throat, around his heart, an icy, unbreakable thread.

He was going to die. Soon. Very soon, and as he'd think it, he'd see what little amount of days, of minutes, of seconds he had left—how much exactly didn't matter—tick away at an alarming rate, insignificant grains of sugar dissolving in the large stream of time. And he would feel something cold and dark, a huge and inescapable presence looming right behind him, around him, a bottomless abyss yawning under him, ready to swallow him whole.

Most of the time he could try to ignore it, forget it, focus on what surrounded him—people, noise, light—until the feeling receded, became nothing but a sinister hiss at the back of his mind. He could try and calm his wildly beating heart, wipe his clammy forehead and hands, find a bathroom to splash water onto his face or someone to talk with, if only for a minute. He could make himself remember that for now he was very much alive.

The worst were the evenings. When he was home, when he was alone, when he was done with a meal he was finding harder and harder to prepare and eat, when he had to get ready for bed. The worst was trying to sleep.

Seeking it felt like tempting the Devil, like inviting in the monster prowling around his home, his life, brushing against him when he least expected it to insidiously remind him of its presence, waiting for the right moment to bite. Lying down, closing his eyes… It was offering himself up for its claws and fangs. In the middle of a slumber he'd suddenly be overcome with the feeling that he was choking. Or sliding, falling. Or drowning.

Every time, he'd startle awake, fumbling for the switch of his bedside lamp. The sight of his room would settle him—and not; although it looked familiar, it felt foreign, almost wrong, like a pasteboard badly covering an ugly swarm of shadowy parasites, barely muffling their malevolent snigger. He'd sit up, run a hand down his face.

His breath always sounded too loud and rough. The apartment always felt too large and empty.

He started coming home later and later, working or going to the bar where he'd drink and pick up one-night-stands he never brought back home. Women, for the most part, willing and very clear about what they wanted, what this was and what it wasn't—but for the first time there were a couple of men, too. He didn't do much with them, didn't go further than handjobs exchanged in a bathroom stall, a blowjob he received once in an alley. It was such a thrill to feel the rasp of their stubble against his lips, his throat, his jaw, the hardness and strength of their bodies against his, the smooth weight of their cocks in his hand; for a second it drowned out everything else. It left him breathless, dizzy, hungry for more—but he didn't dare try and take it yet. And once it was over and he went home, he did so alone.

Inevitably, he came down from the high. With every step he took he felt colder, smaller—until he was back to square one, having gained nothing but a string of blurry memories.

At home he took the habit of leaving the lights, then the TV on, to keep the dark and silence at bay. When that stopped working—not that it had worked all that well to begin with—he turned to alcohol. Just a drink, maybe two—or three, or more—just to help him along the way, to dull the edge of his fear, to erect a blurry wall between him and everything else.

It wasn't very effective. He slept little, and badly—and so it wasn't surprising, if it showed. He'd suspected it, hence why he'd found an excuse to skip Sunday lunch with his mom the week previous. But he hadn't thought it showed enough for Captain Singer to come out and ask about it. If that was the case, everyone at the station had to have noticed, had to be gossiping about it.

Suddenly, Donna bringing him an extra donut the other day made a whole lot more sense.

Not that Dean wanted the attention. He didn't want his colleagues to wonder, didn't want them to ask. He didn't want to answer.

He didn't want to know what he knew.

 _I just really wish I'd told fucking Brady to stuff it_ , he found himself texting to Castiel that night. Usually he avoided it, kept their exchanges to day time where it was easier to pretend he wasn't floundering. But this time—

This time it was nearly half past midnight. He was exhausted but still awake, still avoiding the bed he'd started to hate, preferring to sprawl on the couch instead. He was drunk, or almost, buzzed enough to feel bitter and angry instead of just powerless and small and afraid.

A reply came almost at once. _A feeling most people often share, me included_.

Dean nearly dropped his phone.

 _The fuck you awake?_ he typed and sent before he could think.

Silence followed while Castiel typed his answer, Dean assumed—because he knew it wouldn't be that easy. Of course Castiel wouldn't let this go. And here Dean had been doing so well, keeping it together or, rather, making a show of keeping it together all through Castiel's hints and not-so-discreet yet respectfully held-back attempts to pry, always pretending he didn't notice or replying that he was fine, just fine.

Well, there went that plan. Crap.

 _The police doesn't have the exclusivity on night shifts_ , Castiel finally replied. _I'm getting ready to go to the hospital, my shift starts at 11_. Dean frowned at his phone's screen in confusion, until he remember the two hours time difference between Kansas and California. _What about you? Going in too? I've heard of shifts starting at 3 am_.

 _Yeah, for patrol. But I'm in the investigation division, WE keep hours that are humanly decent most of the time_.

Dean belatedly realized that, unless Castiel was only half-way to awake—which, given his texting performance, was doubtful—he wouldn't take long to put two and two together and understand that it had been hours since Dean had left the station. That he should've been sleeping by now—if not for, well. Everything.

 _I mean, we ran kinda late this ti_ — he started typing, fingers clumsy and far too slow. He was interrupted by his cell lighting up with an incoming call. He groaned, bumping his head against the back of the couch, but accepted it. He couldn't be sure, but he suspected that it'd only worsen the situation if he ignored it.

"Yeah, what?" he said, aware that that wasn't the best opening, especially not with the slight slur dragging his voice down.

Castiel didn't notice, or choose not to remark on it to point out the obvious. "You're not asleep." Dean didn't have time to scoff before he amended, "You can't sleep. Can you?"

The tone implied that Castiel was seeing through Dean's bullshit even before he'd started spewing it. That being the case, Dean didn't bother to pretend. "Well, there's a reason I might be having a hard time reaching Lalaland, if you remember well."

"You're drunk."

So much for Castiel not noticing, or being nice enough to abstain from commenting. "No shit, Sherlock," Dean grunted, rubbing his free hand down his face.

"How much did you have?"

"Not enough, clearly," he said, toeing one of the empty bottles on his coffee table. He patted around on the ground, searching for the latest one, which was still one third full, he believed.

"Dean." Castiel sounded half-way between irritated and upset.

"Hey, it helps," Dean replied.

"It helps," Castiel repeated, in an entirely different tone. "I have a hard time seeing how developing a cirrhosis or an addiction 'helps'." Dean rolled his eyes and, having found his bottle, took a swig out of sheer defiance. "You _know_ what effects alcohol can have if—"

"Spare me the speech, Cas," Dean cut in. "Like it'll even have the time to come to that."

"It's not a reason for you to try and prove the statistics wrong, Dean," Castiel snapped back. After a beat, he added more quietly, "You have to take care of yourself."

Dean swung himself up. "And why exactly?" he asked as he started pacing. "So that I stay healthy, so that I don't die 'before my time'? 'Cause as far as I know, that's still the next item on the menu. Hell, it's the only item on the menu. And there's nothing you, or I, can do about it." He drank the last of his bottle, trying very hard to ignore how hard his hand was shaking.

"There are things you can _avoid_ doing," Castiel said after a short silence, because it figured that he wouldn't be the type to give up so easily. "Starting with drinking yourself into a stupor every night while pretending everything is okay during the day. You've been struggling with this since you came back, didn't you?"

The cat was out of the bag now, so it was no use pretending. "So?"

"So I find it quite worrying that all I see on my phone are messages about just how _fine_ you are," Castiel said. "I mean, I get why you'd be reluctant to discuss such things with someone you barely know, but somehow I'm not sure you're acting any differently with your other acquaintances, or with your friends. Are you?"

Dean remained stubbornly silent.

"Dean, did you tell anyone about this?" Castiel asked again, concern piercing through his voice.

Another silence followed, this time because Dean's throat had grown painfully tight, preventing him from speaking. "I told you, didn't I?" he finally managed to croak.

"That's not—" Castiel cut himself off, let out a breath. "I should tell Sam."

"No!" Dean said, surprised himself by his own vehemence.

"Dean—"

"No," he repeated. "He's got his studies, he's got a life to build, he's got better things to do than to worry about me when he's all the way in California and can't do _anything_."

"He could support you. He would want to support you."

"Yeah, well, he can't," Dean snapped. "I don't want him to know. And he won't, are we clear?"

Castiel remained stubbornly silent for the longest time. "Fine," he finally conceded. "But you have to tell _someone_ —anyone, a friend, your mother, hell, a psychologist, I don't care, just— You can't ignore this. You have to talk about it."

"Yeah? And what good will it do?" Dean asked, leaning against the back of his couch. "And how would I even do that? What, like I come up to my mom on Sunday morning and tell her, Hey, by the way, we should really start thinking about ordering a coffin, 'cause you know, I'll be lying in it soon, so what would you prefer, steel or good ol' pine wood?"

"Dean—"

"I can't do that to her, Cas. Fuck," Dean bit out, digging his fingers into his eyes to stave off the tears, their frustrated burn. "I can't do that to any of them. All it will do is make them worry and— And you know what? If I don't have that much time left with them, then I don't want to spend every fucking second of that time with that hanging over our heads. I don't want their looks of hurt or of worry or, or their _pity_ —"

"If they're your friends—" Castiel started.

"Oh, cut the crap. It'd suck, and you know it. I just—" He let out a weak, bitter laugh. "Yeah, I really, really wished I'd told Brady to stuff it. _Fuck_."

He rubbed at his eyes, his forehead, pretended he didn't need to sniff. The sound was loud in the silence that had settled across the room and over the line.

After a while, Castiel sighed. "I understand," he said. "Not that I agree with you, or approve," he added, a sharp edge briefly hardening his voice—and somehow that made Dean smile, albeit humorlessly, "but I do understand." He let one second pass, another, before he risked himself to go on. "Just know that, well." He hesitated. " _I_ know. And it doesn't change our relationship, since there was no relationship to speak of between us before that, so… If you ever—" He broke off, and admitted: "I don't like the thought of you drinking yourself to sleep. So if you're having a hard time, or need to talk, or anything, you can always text or call me, okay? I mean, I can't guarantee that I will always answer, in between my shifts and the fact that I do happen to sleep at night sometimes, and you know how that goes, actually, I might not hear my phone ring even if I leave it on, but—"

Dean, who had never heard such an awkward offer for help, spared him and stopped his rambling. "Yeah, yeah, I get it. I—" He was touched, unbearably so in his current state. He blinked up at the ceiling, resolutely pushing it all down. "Thanks," he forced out.

"You're welcome," Castiel replied, even more stiffly.

For a while there was nothing but static on the line, neither of them knowing what to say.

"I—" Castiel cleared his throat. "I have to go," he said, sounding reluctant. "My shift—"

Dean glanced at the clock on the DVD player. Surprisingly little time had passed, but now he remembered what Castiel was supposed to be doing. "Oh no, yeah, I get it, sorry for—"

"Don't apologize, you—" Castiel protested at once.

"I'll let you go."

He was met with a brief silence. "Go to sleep, Dean," Cas said. In the pause that followed, Dean could almost see him narrowing his eyes, if only from his tone when he amended, "Drink a glass of water, then go to sleep."

He chuckled. "Yeah, I'll try."

Castiel lingered, obviously reluctant to hang up, as if he hadn't done enough already. But Dean, as reluctant as he was to end up alone again, had no rights to ask for more. "Night, Cas," he said, and ended the call himself.

He stood there for a while, staring down at his phone, at the room around him. It was dark, despite the lamps. Artificial light was never quite able to repel obscurity the way the sun could. He felt drained in a way he hadn't been before, but also strangely better, more settled, like laying some of his anxieties out in the open had indeed put a balm on his worn, chafed soul.

He took a bracing breath, straightened up. One by one, he gathered the bottles littering his coffee table and the floor underneath to put them in the recycling bin. He drank a large glass of water—after all, it couldn't hurt—brushed his teeth, changed and lay down in his bed.

He slept. Nowhere near enough, of course. But four hours were better than none at all.

 

*

 

Dean had had no intention to take Castiel up on his offer. The guy had already given enough as it was and Dean certainly wasn't going to ask more of him. Except that after that conversation, Castiel stopped leaving him alone even during the night. Up until now he hadn't texted him past 9 p.m., as if trying to respect some arbitrary rule about the proper hours at which you could send an inane message to a sort-of friend. But now all bets were off.

It was amazing how someone living nearly two thousands miles away could be so present. Rare were the times when Dean got off work or woke up in a morning without finding a text waiting for him, sent at one point or another in the course of Castiel's crazy schedule. He wasn't sure if the guy had simply stopped refraining himself whenever a random thought popped into his head which he wanted to share with someone without incurring the risk of estranging people he actually worked or studied with, or if he was sending them like a sonar would a wave to sneakily try and determine if Dean was having yet another insomnia, depending on whether or not he got an echo.

His statistics probably ended up skewed, as the case Dean and Benny had been assigned grew more serious. What had first looked like a bunch of drug dealers trying to fatten up their income by cutting their product in a way that translated into a body count had taken a sinister turn when the autopsy results had come—and explained the number of victims: the drug they'd taken had been magically enhanced.

Mixing drugs and magic was dangerous, and chasing the high it could produce even more so. One hit was enough to do serious damage: sometimes the body couldn't bear the strain, leaving the taker with grave mental or physical lesions, when their heart or brain didn't give out altogether. Sometimes the problem was the coming down: blood pressure lowered, energy levels sank—and wouldn't stop sinking, until there was nothing left.

As a consequence to this discovery, several more members of the investigation squad—including, God help them, Garth—had joined Dean and Benny on the case, which started to require for them not only to work overtime but also to take part in nightly patrols and stakeouts. Usually, Dean was the first one to complain about being kept away from his beloved mattress. He wondered if anyone noticed that this time, he hadn't.

He couldn't, not in all honesty. Working at night meant that he came home to sleep in the morning, with clear sunlight streaming through his blinds. He could hear his neighbors through the walls, the lively noise of the street outside his window: motors running, kids on bicycles or skateboards, people talking, dogs barking—a whole symphony that tethered him to the world and kept him company as he slept.

It also meant that he rarely was alone in the darkest hours of the night, either in meetings at the station planning their next move or out with Benny, following up on a lead or trying to gather evidence. It helped that Benny was the chatty kind, so that even on the most uneventful of stakeouts Dean never got lost in thoughts. Instead he listened with one ear while keeping track of the people coming in and out of the bar they wagered could be one of the strategic points for the dealers they were trying to root out.

Benny's topic of choice right now was his girlfriend, Andrea. They'd met and been together for nearly two years now, almost as long as Dean had been working for the precinct—and since then, it had been nothing but one long period of incredulous courting and, on Benny's side, mooning over her. After all this time, he was still very much lovestruck and had a hard time believing such a woman could exist.

He had also a hard time believing she'd want him for the long haul, despite his colleagues'—and most of all Dean's—many reassurances. Which was why, even though he had been toying with the idea of proposing for what felt like forever, he still hadn't popped the question.

It had been brought to the table once more, though, by the fact that Andrea had let slip something about kids. Benny was wondering if an offer of marriage would be enough—or too much—to imply that he was entirely on board with that plan, buffered by the fact that he was looking at a raise.

One and a half hour into their stakeout and he was still nowhere near a proper conclusion with even less of a firm resolution.

"What about you?" he finally asked, probably having noticed Dean's much too rare, subdued replies. Usually, Dean would indeed have gone from encouragements to good old ribbing, because the fact that Benny was more or less seven years his senior and a detective had never prevented him from making fun of him when he deserved it. This time though…

This time he hadn't felt like it. It hadn't even occurred to him to tease, actually. Instead his thoughts had strayed towards one realization: he would never have what Benny had. The unexpected but lasting, almost storybook love, the common project of building a family. Up until now he'd never really thought about it. His latest—his only—lasting relationship had started and ended in college, when the love he'd thought he felt had been nowhere near enough against the dream that had propelled Cassie all the way to Boston for grad school. After mending his bruised—but, he'd noticed after a long while, not broken—heart he'd tucked all his half-formed projects away. He'd never minded that he'd had no reason to bring them back out, dust them off and start to work on them anew. He still didn't, not quite.

He'd just realized that, whether an occasion arose or not, it wouldn't matter. The choice of whether or not he'd get married, whether or not he'd have kids, whether or not he'd even buy a house with someone else, had been taken from him, pure and simple.

But he wasn't going to tell Benny any of that, so when his partner nudged his shoulder, he snapped out of it and shrugged.

"Nope," he said. He recognized the prying look on Benny's face and added, "Hey, I still have time." Which was the biggest lie ever, but Benny didn't need to know that. "Contrary to you old man."

"Right," Benny said with a wry nod, not taking the bait. "Miss Career comes first. You know those are pretty terrible mistresses, right?"

Dean forced a laugh. Because on the heels of his first realization had come a reminder: he would never have a 'career'. He would never make it to captain, hell, he might not even make it to detective. And even if he did, it wouldn't be for long enough for it to matter.

But hey, maybe he'd still die in the line of duty.

He might even die tonight.

"You just wait," Benny was saying. "Before five years are past you'll be right where I am now."

"Old and creaky and whipped as all hell?"

"Wanting to build something with someone. A life."

"Right," was all Dean found in himself to say. Part of him wanted to laugh hysterically, another part to cry—because he never would know, would he? In five years, he wouldn't even be here to tell the tale.

Benny threw him an unimpressed glance, having apparently interpreted his laconism as sarcasm. "You just wait and see," he said again.

He let the matter drop. Which was fortunate, because Dean wasn't sure he would've been able to keep up his light-hearted facade.

This was the hardest, the pretending. It was exhausting. All around him people made plans, talked about the future like it was a given, and he had to act like he was right there with them—when he wasn't. When everywhere he kept dragging that thought, feeling its weight pulling him down, impossible to forget. He almost felt confused at times, by how it never seemed to occur to the others that they might not be there to see any of their dreams come true. The knowledge that he definitely wouldn't be kept jumping out at him at irregular intervals, always catching him off-guard, always striking where it hurt most—unless he forced himself to keep that awareness as a background to his every thought, his every breath, to notice the dark shadow of death dogging his every step, an ancient being perched on his shoulder. But that was draining too. It sucked the life out of him, until he felt like he didn't even have the strength to make himself think about anything else.

"Do you ever think about it?" he found himself asking a couple of days later. He'd come home around midnight and felt too wired to even try to sleep. A text from Castiel had been waiting for him—some far too serious considerations about the differences between creamy and crunchy peanut butter—and Dean had felt the urge to ring instead of finding a far too serious answer.

For some reason he never could ignore Castiel's random thoughts or treat them lightly. If he had, maybe Castiel would've left him alone by now, moved on to better things. But even Dean couldn't be that rude.

Castiel had taken his call after three rings. From the sounds of it, he was cooking something—dinner, or breakfast, depending on how you looked at it.

"About death," Dean clarified. About how quickly it could come, be it because it caught you off guard, or simply because life was so short and time passed so fast.

"Quite often, yes," Castiel replied, casual, almost distracted, like it was obvious.

Dean frowned at his ceiling. Part of him was confused, because Castiel sure as hell didn't give the impression that he was struggling with such dark considerations like Dean did; another part was worried, because if there was one thing he didn't want, even less liked, it was Castiel being plagued by them too. "You do?"

"Of course I do." Castiel paused for a second. "Dean, I work at a hospital," he added softly. "How could I not?"

Very suddenly, very painfully, Dean felt like an utter idiot and an enormous douchebag. He'd forgotten, it hadn't even _occurred_ to him what it was like for Castiel—hell, for every doctor and nurse and even tech—to go into work every day to care for people, half of which weren't going to make it. Some might have stories with a happy ending, but for others there was nothing to do but watch them inevitably wither away and die. Some slipped through their fingers despite their best attempts at holding them back, some simply left before they could even try anything… And here Dean was, complaining about his fate, when he was far from being the only one looking death in the face. He might not know when it would show up, but a possible three to four years time was a lot more than what some people got. Hell, some people didn't even get the twenty-five years that had preceded this all. Some kids never got to make it to adulthood, to _puberty_. Some people never got to experience good health, or a complete set of limbs, or the full use of their bodies.

Yet here he was, just… whining.

"Shit," he said, rubbing a hand down his face. "I— Sorry."

"There's no need for you to apologize," Castiel said, not even chiding.

Dean scoffed. "Okay, you can't tell me that, because there totally is. You spend your days trying to help people, sometimes at your own expense by using dangerous crap—"

"Healing magic is _not_ —" Castiel started to protest, but Dean talked over him:

"—and whenever you could get a break, when you could relax and think of other things and do things you like, here I am, pulling you back in and asking you to be here for my whiny ass. And you're not even getting paid for it."

"Dean—"

"No, really," Dean said, letting out a brief, halting laugh. "That's a new low, even for me."

"Dean," Castiel repeated, and this time the chiding tone had definitely arrived. "There's no harm in—" He broke off with a slightly irritated sigh. "You're afraid. And it's okay. It's okay to be scared. It's _normal_."

Dean would've liked to interrupt, to protest that no, he wasn't _scared_ —except that he totally was, wasn't he? He was terrified. All he managed was a weak scoff.

"It makes you human," Castiel insisted, undeterred. "Besides, your situation might resemble that of several patients from the hospital—but it's also quite unique. Most people here, when they hear that they can't be healed, tend to know what's going to kill them. And we are often able to give them a more precise estimate of how much time they have left than you have. It helps them prepare themselves better."

"… Maybe," Dean conceded. It was true that it was hard, not knowing when exactly the end would come. If he'd known what to expect—mere days, a couple of months, one year—he would've been able to work with that, to plan.

He'd toyed with the idea of going to a specialist in divination, despite how questionable their activities were. But he'd soon realized that, unless he was incredibly lucky and asked to be projected at the exact right time on the first try, there were little chances he'd manage to narrow things down—unless he went through a flurry of séances, which he definitely couldn't afford on his  cop salary.

Besides, he really didn't want to repeatedly look into a mirror and see nothing but that dark emptiness staring back at him.

"But that doesn't mean their situation sucks any less," he went on. He pressed his lips together. "And I'm pretty sure being the one to tell them the news and giving them the details of their countdown sucks balls too."

"Dean—" Castiel started.

"I mean, I never even asked how it was for you, not really. Hell, most of the time you don't even get to tell me how you day has gone. I'm such a dick I don't even ask."

"And maybe I don't insist upon it because I don't want to talk about it when I'm not on shift," Castiel pointed out.

"So you don't want to talk about it? At all?" Dean asked, skepticism lacing through his voice.

He was met by silence.

"Come on, man," he said after a while. "You told me yourself that you chose med studies with magic on top because you want to help people. You can't tell me that turned into you hating your job."

"Sometimes I do," Castiel said, whispered almost, quiet like he was revealing some shameful secret. "But most of the time," he added at once, louder, like he could erase the admission. "Yes. I do like being able to help. To do something. When a patient gets to live or, even better, to go home, it's— Yes, when that happens, I like my job. Well, prospective job."

"Then tell me about that. Come on," Dean pushed. "I bet you have tons of stories about making it possible for a cute kid to enjoy the delights of going to school and ending up buried under a mountain of homework like everyone else."

Only Castiel didn't. In the returning silence, Dean was overtaken with worry that he'd put his foot in his mouth, mentioned kids when a kid had just died without Castiel or his supervisor being able to save him. "Cas?" he asked.

"I'm just not sure…" Castiel said. That was when Dean realized he wasn't reluctant to dig into painful memories, just to drop the subject of how _Dean_ was doing—or rather, how badly Dean was doing.

"Look, Cas," he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I get that you want to help, to make me feel better, whatever. But you might've noticed that's not really working out for me. And I need you to believe me when I say the best thing you can do right now is drop it and tell me about how _you're_ doing. Tell me about the cranky patient in room 6 who's convinced that you're all spies out to get him, or the grandma who keeps trying to reenact _The Great Escapist_ , or how the coffee is crap, or how the machines you use actually _are_ alien technology because those huge ass scanners are downright creepy, I don't know. Anything. And I'll listen. And if you insist on this being beneficial for me, just tell yourself that at least it'll make me feel like less of an asshole."

A second dragged by, another, making Dean afraid his little speech hadn't worked. Then Castiel mumbled, "The coffee _is_ crap."

Dean almost let out a sigh of relief. "Oh yeah?" he asked. "Why, is that because the coffee machine is crap too, or…?"

"Oh, it is. I'm quite certain it's older than I am, actually. Meg just thinks it's haunted."

"Yeah?" Dean prompted with a soft laugh. "And why is that?"

He closed his eyes with a smile as Castiel answered, and simply listened.

 

*

 

That weekend, Dean decided to stop being a coward and not stand his mother up for their usual Sunday activities. He'd realized that fleeing had been a dick move, his absence worrying his mom far more than his drawn features or the rings under his eyes ever could—but also that he only had a limited amount of Sundays to spend with her now. Well, he'd always had a limited amount of Sundays to spend with her, but that number was now a lot more reduced than he could've hoped for.

The day was made of small rituals: Dean would arrive in the morning and mow the lawn in exchange for a nice lunch made of sandwiches and pie. The afternoon would vary depending on the time of the year, the weather or their mood. Right now, with summer getting closer and the sun securing its hold over the skies, time was for small repairs around the house—especially on the kitchen window shutters, which had suffered a lot during the winter, and on the fence that needed a new paint job.

It rapidly became clear that Mary had noticed he looked worse for wear and felt reluctant to ask him to work on any of that. Dean steadily ignored it and made a beeline for the shed, refusing to let go of that small semblance of normalcy.

He was tempted to, though: he still had a crick in his neck after falling asleep on the couch to the sound of Castiel's voice a couple of days ago. Castiel, who kept texting him throughout the morning—and the workout that came with handling that freaking huge mower—obviously in need of a commiserating ear or, well, screen, while he was once again forced into the role of middleman trying to smooth over yet another family friction, this time between two of his countless cousins and his sister Hannah.

 _I don't even know why they're asking me for advice_ , he texted at one point. _Or why I even bother to give it_.

 _'Cause you're wise and attentive and levelheaded and just generally awesome?_ Dean replied, briefly abandoning his duty—which was well on its way to take him twice as long as usual for that very reason. He couldn't let Castiel hanging, though: he was the one who'd asked the guy to share his grievances with him, so he had to be there when Castiel did. Dean might've expected to hear more about Castiel's job and less about his family, but it didn't matter. On the contrary, something in him wiggled happily that Castiel opened up to him about that too.

 _Both Barty and Mal are older than I am_ , Castiel pointed out, like it meant they were necessarily wiser, or at least more mature—which, given what Dean already knew about them, was doubtful. _Besides, no matter how much I think out what I say, they rarely listen. Even Hannah_. After a pause, he added, _Especially Hannah_.

Dean smirked at his phone. _Little siblings man. What did you expect?_

When no answer came he tucked the device away and resolved to tackle the last of the lawn before he allowed himself to check his messages again.

Mary had definitely noticed the snail-like pace of his work, and had probably seen him standing right in the middle of the grass typing on his phone like a computer addict trying to assuage his withdrawal symptoms with the next best thing, but she didn't pry once he got back inside. She seemed more relaxed than when he'd first arrived—but that was probably because of how perfect her apple pie had turned out. Dean kept a predatory eye on its slightly glazed, golden surface as he wolfed down three of the sandwiches she'd prepared. Even then, he salivated when she cut into the pastry and served him a slice on a plate with a scoop of vanilla ice-cream.

The pie tasted as good as it looked and smelled, if not better. Flaky on the first bite, the crust turned buttery and soft as soon as he started chewing. The apples were delightfully warm, they melted on his tongue while their juice spread in his mouth, a thick syrup blended with caramel and just the right amount of cinnamon. The taste was that perfect balance of sweet and tangy, offset by the ice-cream, surprisingly cold and smooth. Delicious.

Dean ate it all in small bites, taking his time, eyes closed. Who knew if he would get to eat one of those again? But beside the fact that any nice meal he took lately could feel like the Last Supper, tasting one of his mother's pies had always been a near religious experience. Halfway through his degustation he opened his eyes, taking in the kitchen around him, the garden that he could see through the window, and settled in a quiet, peaceful feeling of home. He gazed at the flowers already blooming into a riot of colors, the plants already thriving, promising many a vegetable in the months to come.

"Dean?" A brush against his shoulder popped his contemplative bubble. He realized his mother had been trying to get his attention, asking a question that hadn't even registered. He blinked and looked up at her. "I kind of lost you here, didn't I?" she said, softly teasing. Her hand rubbed the top of his head, slid down to cup his cheek. "You okay?"

The question was light, almost amused in the wake of the reaction he'd had to his first bite. Dean let himself bask in it. "Yeah," he said. For the first time in weeks he wasn't even lying. "I was just… I don't know, thinking."

"About?" she prodded.

Dean shrugged. "It's just," he said, gaze straying once more towards the stems outside and their colorful crowns. "Your garden looks pretty good. I bet all your neighbors are jealous and convinced you're using magic or something."

He would've almost believed it himself, given how little time Mary's job as a waitress left her to spend on her house and yard, if he hadn't known for a fact that an utter lack of magical abilities was one of the many traits they had in common.

She quirked an eyebrow at him. "Using and maintaining a spell just to encourage plant growth for any length of time would be quite an undertaking," she pointed out. "That is to say very complicated, and very taxing on the caster, for very little results. I think I'll just stick with the good old hands-on approach, and bask in the knowledge that even then, I'm better than most of the people in this neighborhood."

They shared a smirk, but the one on Dean's lips soon faded. "I always found it hard to understand."

"Understand what?"

"How come you didn't have magic. I don't know, it feels like it would only be logical that you would have it. A lot more than dad. But—" He shrugged.

"Well, that's one topic that has had scientists stumped for centuries, so I wouldn't worry about being confused if I were you," she said, ruffling his hair before she started to clear the table. "It reminds me of an article I read though." Because sometimes Mary liked to read scientific journals for fun. It was things like that that made it obvious that Sam was her son too, and Dean believe she and Castiel would get along very well.

But then he remembered that there was very little chance they'd ever have a reason to meet—well, apart from one he very much didn't want to think about.

"It was from a biologist, who claimed that _everyone_ has an affinity to magic and uses it," Mary was saying. "Some of them just do it unconsciously. According to him, it would explain why someone who can't cast any spell can still use a tool that has been infused with magic by someone else."

"Like our trackers?" Dean asked.

"For instance, yes." Mary squirted some product in the sink, turned on the faucet and leant back against the counter while she waited for the water to fill it. "But he was mostly interested in spontaneous uses of magic. You know how magic is energy? That magic users learn how to channel and focus? Well, Devereaux' theory was that it happens whenever people do something they love or care about—and that it's what gives the result that little touch, for you or for the person who receives it. Or what provokes that thrill of accomplishment. The way people describe it is a lot similar to the rush people with magical abilities feel when they successfully use a spell, and their brain activity shows the same patterns, just weaker. As if, consciously or not, everyone was drawing on magic whenever they create something."

Dean stared at her for a second. "So, like, what makes this pie even better is not just that you're an awesome cook, but also that you unconsciously used the power of love to make it?"

Mary rolled her eyes fondly. "That's a way to put it," she said, turning back to the sink to stop the faucet and put on her rubber gloves.

Dean looked down at the last small square of pie he'd been saving. "Well, I don't know if that guy's right," he said, putting it in his mouth. "But this is still damn good."

"Don't talk with your mouth full," Mary replied.

Dean smiled and let it all wash over him, how well she knew him, her affection. He felt… good, almost giddy with it. And safe, despite everything. He wanted to savor that, to wrap himself in the feeling, maybe even close his eyes and take a nap, like when he was a kid.

He remembered times spent in the kitchen back then, when he helped his mom bake on a Sunday afternoon. He'd loved those times. She never minded if he took a lot longer than she to peel an apple or a pear, or if the slices he cut with his kiddy knife were all crooked and mangled, or even if he ended up eating some of them before they could make it to the spread dough, as long as it wasn't too much. She let him measure the flour and sugar and sieve it into the bowl to avoid lumps, crack the eggs even though he broke the yolk half the time, break the chocolate bar into squares and lick his fingers afterwards. She guided his hands with hers to whisk the egg whites, stir the sugar as it caramelized, incorporate chocolate chips into the cookie dough or sprinkle raspberries with icing sugar. When they prepared pie she'd sit down across from him at the table to fill it like a puzzle of strawberries, apple slices or apricot quarters. His half of it was always smaller and sloppier than hers, yet she'd always deem the result perfect.

Once their work was baking in the oven, Dean would take his nap, curled up on the couch, dozing until the appetizing smell of warm butter, sugar, fruit or chocolate started wafting through the vent. Up to this day, he couldn't remember times where he'd felt more content.

There _had_ been magic in those times, and Dean didn't care if it wasn't the kind some people—some snobs—would deem worthy of the name. Their lack of understanding didn't make those moments any less precious. Or regretted.

Because Dean had grown up, and dad had signed him up for the softball team, and from then on Sundays had been for training. Dean had understood, without even being told, that baking wasn't something boys did, least of all John's boys.

He hadn't protested at the time, hadn't felt like he could, even though for months leaving the house to go to practice had been a pain, focusing on the game when all he wanted was to focus on the spiral he could've been drawing in apple slices even worse. It was only now that he realized how Mary might've taken his silence—like an agreement, like a sign that he was changing and didn't want to be her apprentice anymore. What he hadn't known then, but knew now, was that she would never have let go so easily if he'd given any sign of what he really wanted.

It would've been easy to blame John for it. To say that he took advantage of his position of authority, that he didn't listen, maybe didn't even care about what his son really liked and wanted. But even back then, even though part of him had resented his dad for taking him away every Sunday, another part had been ashamed of the feeling, and another happy, no, thrilled to be doing something with John, something that John liked, that John could be proud of.

It was just that even though he'd learned to like softball, it had never given him the joy, the satisfaction, the peace he'd drawn from helping his mom in the kitchen. And now that he was remembering all this, getting a taste of these early feelings just by being there, in his mom's kitchen, enjoying a pie… Now, with things being the way they were, he suddenly found himself craving it, wishing he could have it all again.

Except that he could. There was nothing stopping him from reaching out for it, nothing concrete. He looked down at his empty plate. It would definitely help. And if it made him feel better…

Why not?

"Hey, mom?" he asked.

"Yes?"

"Could you—" He cleared his throat. "Could you teach me how you bake that pie? It would, I don't know. It feels like it's a thing I should know."

It would be so nice, to get some of these moments back.

Mary had paused in her scrubbing at the cutlery. When Dean met her eyes, a smile spread onto her lips, her whole face, bright as a sunrise. "Of course," she said, sounding, of all things, _touched_. Dean ducked his head. "Although it won't mean that you get to have some whenever you want," Mary added, softly teasing, because she knew him, knew how he thought and worked, how to make him relax. "Or that you're getting out of helping around here. That lawnmower is a monster even I can't hope to tackle."

"Bullshit," Dean retorted. "We both know you could, you just like to show me off to the harpies across the street."

"Language," Mary piped up, not denying anything.

"No but, seriously. I mean, Sam will freak out, I'm sure." He pictured the look on his brother's face and grinned. "That'll be great."

The ensuing silence surprised him. When he looked up, Mary was watching him, still smiling but it was smaller, fond but also slightly sad.

"You miss him, don't you?"

From her tone, Dean understood that she thought that was the heart of the problem, the reason why he wasn't doing so well since his return. Or a large part of it.

He didn't contradict her. After all, it wasn't completely untrue. He did miss the Sasquash, and every time he went to see him he felt it more acutely. "Yeah," he said.

"The year is almost over," she reminded him softly, making it clear that she shared the feeling. "He will be home soon."

"If he survives his LSAT," Dean mumbled.

He stood up from his seat to bring his fork and plate to the sink, and snatched a rag to start drying the dishes.

 

*

 

Sam did survive his LSAT. He came home, looking worse for wear, anxious for his results. Dean told him several times that he needn't be, then gave up when all it got him was a swarm of words about how he didn't get it, how Sam needed outstanding results because without them he would have no chance to score a scholarship, how without a scholarship he would have to reconsider going to law school because it was crazy expensive and his loans were already high enough as it was, how he couldn't afford to borrow much more money if he wanted to pay it back one day, how there were so many candidates who _could_ , though—good candidates, great candidates, so Sam had to find a way to stick out _somehow_ , but he probably didn't, no, actually he _certainly_ didn't, that was obvious, he was going to fail, spectacularly at that, and he'd spend his life as, like, a handyman in a crappy motel _at best_ , because no one else would ever hire him, clearly.

The problem with Sam, Dean had understood a long time ago, was that he had too good of an imagination. It might have served him in high school when it had impressed his English teacher, who had encouraged him to sign up for a regional literary prize—which he'd won, the nerd. But now, since Sammy hadn't opted for a career as an author, it was becoming a problem. If only because he tended to build up such worst-case scenarios in his head that it often ended up with him not doing a damn thing for fear of what might happen.

Take his love life for example: Sam had never had a steady girlfriend. Dean wasn't even sure he'd ever _had_ a girlfriend, and he _knew_ that the idiot still hadn't asked Jess out, even after The Kiss. Why? Because Sammy had probably convinced himself that it had all been a fluke, that it had only happened because of the game—which, okay, it had, but _still_ —and because they were drunk, that Jess couldn't possibly see him that way, that if she did she'd stop as soon as she got to know him better, and that if by some miracle she didn't, something else would happen that'd make it all blow up in Sam's face, so really, it was better not to even try and spare the both of them a headache and heartbreak. Right?

Right.

Except that Sam was full of shit. Dean didn't even bother to try and prove it, since the guy did it himself: around three weeks after his arrival back home, the LSAT results were published online. He'd scored a 174.

Somehow, Dean wasn't surprised.

He congratulated Sam all the same and celebrated by baking him a pie—the preparation of which had been like riding a bike; an old, rusty bike, wobbly on the take off, but a functioning bike all the same. Sam totally fell for it: he thought Mary had made it. Dean didn't correct him and proceeded with getting him drunk, since they legally could. Sam's inebriation had the advantage of making him much more liable to agree with his older brother, so that by the second beer he was more than ready to claim that he was, indeed, smart and good and that he had a successful life opening up for him.

Fortunately it also made him self-absorbed enough that he didn't ask Dean to come to similar conclusions about his own qualities and career. Had that been the case, and since Dean, when drunk, couldn't lie to save his life, it would have ended in him admitting to certain truths that he preferred to leave unsaid.

He made sure never to go past tipsy. Which was why he could drive his brother back home at the end of the evening without unduly worrying their mother and even start planning in advance: after all, if he could make Sam feel confident about his abilities when it came to academics and career, maybe he could make him apply the same logic to other areas so that he would gather enough courage to make his move with Jess sooner than later.

He had all the time he needed to achieve that, too. Sam didn't stay very long in Lawrence once he'd gotten his results, as he had a two months long internship lined up at the start of July. But instead of flying, he climbed into the Impala with Dean for the road trip they'd decided on back in May. It meant that Dean was sacrificing his last weeks leave, which he usually saved up for Christmas. He'd already known it'd come to that when he'd decided to make the trip to Stanford to mark his brother's 21 birthday. He didn't mind. Not when having Sam back home, having a reason to drop by his mom's several times a week for dinner and (pretend to) fall asleep on the couch instead of going back home, had made him feel so much better. He ate more, slept better, drank less.

He hadn't forgotten what was going to happen to him soon, of course. But it seemed more distant, almost muffled, drowned under the happy chatter and buzz of his family until he could toy with the thought without being as afraid as before. He could tell himself that it was all okay. No matter what would happen, he'd had a good life, with good people in it. That was more than a lot of people had, wasn't it?

He tried not to linger on the thought that it was less than a lot of other people got too.

They left for their road trip heading straight West. The weather was clear but not too warm yet, the music was good, his little brother was in the passenger seat and Dean almost felt drunk on it all. He'd reassured their mom that they'd be careful and switch often—which they did. Whether he was at the wheel or not didn't matter to Dean right now.

What mattered was make Sam see the obvious. It worked: within a day and a half, he had Sam tentatively texting Jess, and by the time they made it to Palo Alto, arriving in the afternoon, the guy had turned into an apologetic mess. He and Dean usually closed the doors on a road trip with a bang, doing all the things they couldn't reasonably do during the trip itself for timing or safety reasons, like stay up all night marathoning a show they'd stumbled upon on the motel TV or eat brunch—or, this time, drinking until they saw double. Dean had had _plans_ about the night following their arrival. But as it turned out, Jess was about to leave town for her own internship in Phoenix. It meant that, if Sam wanted to see her, he'd have to do so that very evening, as her plane was due to leave less than two days later.

Dean wasn't going to let all his efforts go to waste and assuaged Sam's guilt at missing their traditional feasting by more or less kicking him out of his apartment.

"I'm sure I will find ways to distract myself," he said when Sam wouldn't quit looking at him like a puppy that had peed on the carpet. He wiggled his eyebrows for good measure.

The look on Sam's face when he got his meaning was priceless, as always. "Dean!" he complained, and from then on couldn't take off fast enough. "You better not hook up with someone I know," were his parting words. "And for God's sake don't bring her back here, you know the couch can't bear that kind of strain _and_ I don't want to be scarred for life if I come back too early."

Dean was still laughing when the door slammed shut behind him. At least Sam would have one conversation topic if he had difficulty finding any once he was sitting opposite from Jess.

He puttered around for a while, made himself a sandwich with half stale bread, a slice of cheese and a sad lonely tomato left behind by Zach when he'd taken off for the coast with his sister. He found and watched a rerun of _Deep Space Nine_ , and when the clock ticked past four, he took his phone, his wallet, the set of keys Sam had left him, and went out.

Contrary to what Sam probably expected, he didn't go straight to the nearest bar. Instead, he made his way towards the campus, found a map and headed towards the medical center and its library.

Over the couple of months during which he and Castiel had been texting and calling, he'd come to realize that the guy followed a pretty regular pattern. Whenever Castiel had a day off, instead of enjoying it like the God given right it was, he would often study, of all things. Okay, sometimes it was only for half a day, when he'd been on the night shift for instance—but now that summer break had started even for clinical students, he'd been going to the library nearly every day. Dean knew, because when that happened Castiel could only be reached at lunch or during one of the brief breaks he allowed himself, one in the morning and one in the afternoon.

The latter generally happened between half past four and five.

As he walked, Dean felt an unexpected kind of trepidation spread through him. He hadn't told Castiel that he was coming with Sam. But that wasn't weird, right? Friends did surprise visits all the time. Surely, after all this time and all the things they'd told each other, he and Castiel counted as friends. Surely Castiel wouldn't be dismayed to see him, or creeped out. Right?

The campus was near deserted compared to what it had been like when Dean had last visited in May. Most people were on holiday, or on internship, or working a summer job to make a little bit of money before the fall. Those who remained either had classes, the poor ones, or were overzealous nerds, like Castiel—whom Dean felt like he had to save from himself.

As he neared the medical center, he freed his phone from his pocket and sent a text. _Cas?_

When he got no immediate answer, he continued:

_Cas._

_Cas._

_Cas._

Sometimes Dean was aware that he was acting like a five year old with a crush. Most of the time he didn't care and carried on. Besides, this time it had the bonus of—poorly—distracting him from how strongly his heart was beating.

If he was being honest with himself, his purpose in coming here went further than the mere wish to say hi. He wanted to have a conversation face to face, for one. He wanted to find a way to thank Castiel for being there for him these past two months, especially during the mess that had been the last two weeks before Sam's return. He wanted to look him in the eye and see if Castiel in person had the same effect than he'd had when they'd taken their small road trip or if it had been just a fluke—or if it had increased now that Dean knew and liked him better, but that part was slightly mortifying and Dean steadily ignored it.

He also ignored the little jump and squeeze his heart did when his phone buzzed in his hand. _Yes, Dean, what is it?_

Dean often marveled at Castiel's ability to convey utter impatience whilst using a wording that was nothing but polite.

 _Time for a coffee break_ , Dean replied, finally reaching the library entrance and parking himself against a wooden bench.

 _I have noticed, yes_ , Castiel sent—which Dean had guessed, since otherwise Cas wouldn't even be answering. Still, he replied:

_Somehow I doubt that. Honestly, what would you do without me?_

Throat tight, Dean stared at the doors, waiting for Castiel to appear. Whenever he tried to picture him bent over his books, he imagined the scene to happen in one of the remotest rooms, deep in the entrails of the building, somewhere where very few people ventured except to briefly check an obscure reference. Castiel would settle there, sure to remain undisturbed, and, surrounded by that absolute quiet, would study for hours.

As a consequence, it would always take him a long ass time to extract himself and reach the outside world.

 _I'd get a lot more work done, for one_ , Castiel replied.

 _Right_.

Dean's eyes caught a movement through the glass. He couldn't help but perk up, couldn't help the grin that stole over his face when he recognized his friend, his short yet messy dark hair, the frown carving folds between his eyebrows as he stepped through the automatic doors while he typed on the device in his hand.

Dean didn't wait for whatever it was he had to say and quickly sent: _Btw, you should really look where you're walking before you run head first into that pillar_.

Which was a lie: Castiel was navigating the place with the familiarity born from entire years of study. But it had the expected effect. Castiel paused, his frown deepening in confusion, and looked up.

He stilled when his eyes landed on Dean. Dean, who couldn't stop grinning but had definitely stopped breathing. He hadn't taken into account how excruciating these seconds would be, during which Castiel stared and the questions Dean had been ignoring crowded his brain: What if it _was_ weird? What if Castiel had just been playing nice with the poor dude not so quietly freaking out all the way in Kansas, but had never imagined that him being kind to the guy would lead to him having to be kind in person? What if Castiel didn't want to see him? What if he had better things to do than share his coffee break with him? What if—

Castiel smiled. It wasn't huge, with barely a sliver of teeth showing, but it was genuine, reaching all the way up to his eyes, crinkling their corners and smoothing out his brow.

"Dean," he said, finally coming closer. As he did, a multitude of details—in his expression, his features, his gait—jumped out at Dean, as if he was seeing them all for the first time.

It was something, a very peculiar impression that came over him more and more ever since what had happened on Sam's birthday. At times he'd forget about what he'd seen for hours on end—especially in the three weeks during which Sam had been there and Dean entirely too distracted and glad to see him to have room for anything else in his mind; at others it all came back and became all he could think about.

In the wake of such moments, everything around him stood out, every single detail rare and precious, turned painfully beautiful and at the same time tainted by a bitter shadow, a veil thrown over things soon to be lost and missed. It was like he was seeing and feeling things for the first time all over again: the smooth curve of the Impala's wheel under his hands or the give of the mattress under his weight on a lazy morning after a rare good night of sleep, the smell of oil and sweat sticking to his hands after he'd tuned up his car and the fragrance of freshly cut grass in his mom's backyard, the taste of peach pie or the bitter yet refreshing tang of a cold beer at the end of a long day, the faint crinkle of vinyl before a Zeppelin song started to play and Sam's laughter over the phone, across the room, the light playing on Jo or Charlie's bright hair, reflecting in Benny's blue eyes or cutting through the shadows in orange and gold during a stakeout…

Seeing Castiel again felt exactly like that, like a concentration of such instants. Dean noticed everything at once: the slightly off-balance rhythm of his gait, the exact curve of his smile, the loose grip on his long fingers on the worn strap of his backpack, the bright yet deep color of his eyes—up until Castiel stopped right in front of him and drew him into an unexpected, awkward hug. It knocked Dean entirely off balance. His mind boggled under the renewed onslaught of sensation, the firmness and warmth of Castiel's body against his, the tickle of his hair against Dean's cheek and nose, his smell. Dean barely had the time to take that in, to recover his footing and half-return the embrace by clasping an arm around Castiel's side and patting a hand against his back before Castiel was pulling away, leaving Dean bereft and lost once more.

Castiel's smile had widened and brightened. Seeing it made something quiet down and settle in Dean. He returned the expression the best he could.

"It's good to see you," Castiel said, eyes never leaving Dean's, taking in his face like it was a sight he'd long yearned for, like he was committing it to memory, like he was mapping out every single one of his features. "You look good."

He didn't sound surprised, not quite, but still somehow relieved. Pleased.

"Yeah, don't have both feet in the grave yet," Dean managed to reply.

Castiel threw him a look, scolding and amused all at once. It shouldn't have been possible, but Dean felt like he'd missed that expression—even though he'd never seen it before, never underlined with the fondness and familiarity born from their conversations over the phone.

"I'm good, I swear," he said. Right now, it couldn't have been less of a lie. "You?"

Castiel shrugged. It was fascinating to see his physical reaction to having questions about his well-being directed at him—something he wasn't used to, Dean had come to realize, and felt slightly uncomfortable with. Mostly because he didn't know what to make of it. "I'm fine. Great, now."

A short silence followed. It wasn't weird, but it was definitely awkward.

"Where's Sam?" Castiel asked.

It took a second for Dean to remember how he'd come here, with whom, and that of the two Winchester brothers, Sam had been the one to meet and befriend Castiel first.

"Ah, he's—" Dean grinned and raised his eyebrow, an automatic reaction. "He's with Jess."

Castiel understood his meaning at once. "With Jess?"

"With _Jess_ ," Dean repeated with a nod, feeling proud, of Sam and of himself for making that happen. The feeling abated when he went on, a lot less smoothly: "Which means I have a whole afternoon to myself. And, you know…" Suddenly he couldn't meet Castiel's eyes and looked down as he pushed around a leftover dry leaf with the tip of his shoe. "Since classes and your thing at the hospital are over for the summer, I thought maybe you could allow yourself a long coffee break for once, and I could buy you a drink, to, you know—"

He managed to glance up, only to trail off when he saw the expression on Castiel's face. The guy was still staring at him, a smile still curving his lips—it hadn't stopped since he'd caught sight of Dean. It was smaller now, but no less genuine, no less happy.

"What d'you say?" Dean made himself ask, impossibly nervous.

Castiel kept staring for a second more, two, then said, "Let me go get my stuff."

He turned around and headed right back towards the library. Dean blinked, wrong-footed. "But—" He had to raise his voice. "You already have your bag?"

"The rest of my stuff, Dean," Castiel replied without looking back. He vanished into the building, leaving Dean standing here like an idiot.

A minute went by, two. Dean helplessly looked around, part of him relieved that there were so few people around, another part wondering: what now? Did he just wait? Castiel had implied that he was coming back, but what if he didn't? What if he'd just used a pretext to make his escape through another door? What if—

The questions stopped and dissolved when Castiel returned, his backpack definitely heavier and now accompanied by an equally full tote bag—both probably containing the books his table had been littered with.

"Won't you lose your spot?" Dean asked, remembering Sam's description of strategies to conquer and most of all keep library table territory.

Castiel shook his head. "It's summer, the library is never full these days," he said. "Besides, I'm not coming back. Not today."

"But—" Thrilled as he might have been by Castiel's decision to spend more than half an hour with him, Dean hadn't meant to cut into his study time that much.

Castiel just shrugged. "Classes are over," he said, entirely unconcerned. "Now come on."

He didn't bring Dean to the nearest coffee shop, instead making them take a much longer walk so they could reach his favorite establishment. They took their order to go so they could drink it in the nearby park. It wasn't too far from Castiel's place, Dean gathered, and somehow he could easily picture his friend spending some of his free time here, sitting on a bench, reading or simply people watching.

They found a spot in the shade and sat while they drank and talked. Due to Dean being on the road with Sam and not telling Castiel about it, their contacts had been reduced over the past week. It didn't mean that there were tons of things to catch up on, but enough to keep the conversation going.

Dean told him what he could disclose about the latest case he'd taken part in. They'd managed to close it: the team had tracked down the dealers, had found whom appeared to be their leader, a girl named Ruby. A little bit older, a little bit smarter, a lot more gifted; she'd even had a magic license, contrary to her companions. She'd been taken in, had taken responsibility—and she seemed ready to come clean. Since the whole investigation team wasn't needed to take her testimony and clean up her mess, Dean had been allowed his weeks leave.

Castiel talked about how the year had ended for him—very well—and about his plans for the summer. It was nothing fancy: at the end of the week he was flying out to visit his family for a fortnight and, after that, he'd return to California for a volunteering job at a retirement home.

"Uh," Dean let out.

Castiel squinted at him although he didn't lose his smile. "What?"

"Nothing," Dean said. "Just sounds like a very Cas thing to do."

Castiel put his now empty cup down on the seat beside him and turned towards Dean. He'd slung an arm over the back of the bench and Dean was painfully aware of his hand, curled so close to Dean's shoulder and neck. "How so?"

"Come on," Dean said. "You don't need me spelling it out for you. You're a med student."

Castiel simply looked at him.

"You care about people. You take care of them. Even those no one cares about. Especially those."

He couldn't meet Castiel's gaze for some reason. In the shade of the tree, the blue of his eyes stood out like they were glowing from within, almost hypnotizing. But it was mostly the look in them that Dean couldn't face.

"People do care about you, you know," Castiel said.

Dean blinked. "I didn't mean—" he fumbled. "I wasn't—" Except that some part of him was, apparently. It had curled up, a frozen and painful lump lodged in his chest.

How unsettling, that Castiel had seen right through him, that he could read him so easily already.

Dean's phone buzzed in his pocket. He was all too happy for the distraction. It was a text from Sam, telling him that he wouldn't make it home for dinner. Dean grinned and was preparing himself to pry when he received another message:

 _But maybe you want to join us? Luis and Brady will be here_.

For a second Dean felt confused, before he understood: the date he'd hoped Sam would take Jess on obviously wasn't happening. He rolled his eyes.

"What is it?" Castiel asked.

"Sam sucks, is what," Dean grunted, replying in swift succession: _Thanks but no thanks_. Luis could be lots of fun, but there was no way Dean would willingly inflict Brady's presence upon himself. Or upon Castiel. _Also, you SUCK_.

"Why, what happened?" Castiel asked just as Sam sent: _Why?_

"He's a hopeless reject, that's why." At Castiel's raise of eyebrows, Dean elaborated. "He's going out. With friends. Throwing all my carefully laid plans that he'd finally take Jess out on a date down the sewer."

"Oh."

"Yeah, ' _oh_ '," Dean grumbled, sliding his phone back into his pockets without even bothering to enlighten Sam. The guy was twenty-one for God's sake. It was high time he learned to figure out these things by himself. "I swear, I can't believe we're even related sometimes."

"Because you are a master of seduction?" Castiel said, sounding doubtful, almost insultingly so.

"Well, yeah," Dean said. "I mean, if I was attracted to someone, and it was as obvious that the feeling was returned as it is with Jess, I wouldn't stop at a measly coffee date. There'd be wining and dining, and there'd be none of that ambiguous crap about where the evening's headed." Except for the fact that Dean was more the bar hook-up type than the serial-dater, and therefore talking out of his ass. Although he hadn't gone out with that in mind in a while, he now realized. Between his job taking up more and more of his evenings and nights, baking with his mom and keeping up with Castiel he hadn't had the time, or felt the urge to. And then with Sam visiting…

"Hey," he added, because he could see the skepticism and amusement at the bottom of Castiel's eyes. "Since that's what we both want. Happy ending for everyone."

Castiel smiled at that, but it looked a bit sad, for some reason.

"Anyway, what it boils down to right now is, I'm free as a bird for dinner. You know any decent joints in the vicinity? I mean," he added when Castiel's smile faded to be replaced by a weird expression. "Unless you already have something else planned for tonight?"

"No," Castiel replied. "Not at all, it's just—" He didn't finish, ducking his head and letting out a small huff around a renewed smile. "I know a great place, not too far away. We can go now," he said, standing up and snatching his cup to throw it in the trash. Dean followed suit. "I go there from time to time and I often thought—" He shrugged and leaned into Dean. "They don't have wine, though."

"That's okay," Dean said, chucking his cup into the can after him. "I'm more of a beer guy myself."

"Good," Castiel said. His smile was doing weird things to Dean's insides. "Me too."

 

*

 

The place Castiel led them to was a small but clean diner, and from the look and smell of what people had on their plate, quite good. It had the homey feel of family owned establishments aiming for comfort more than fanciness—exactly the kind of place Dean liked.

They grabbed a table along one of the walls, ordered a couple of beers and pored over the menus for a minute. Dean settled for a plate of pasta, as he was, indeed, following his doctor's advice and dialing it back on burgers and takeout. He couldn't be sure, but he thought he saw Castiel hide an approving smile behind the red, glossy paper.

The dish was good, delicious even, made all the better by the conversation accompanying it, interspersed with laughter. Dean almost felt dizzy with it, how well he and Castiel got along, how they didn't even have to stretch to find something to say—and it wasn't until the very end of their meal, when the waitress brought the bill and there was a second of hesitation before Dean remembered they'd of course share it, that he realized what it felt like, and probably looked like too.

He glanced at Castiel, who was riffling through his wallet looking for change, entirely unbothered by paying his half. His eyes were bright, a faint flush high on his cheeks while a smile lingered at the corner of his mouth. He looked like how Dean felt.

Except that he couldn't, he shouldn't, not knowing what was to happen to Dean sooner than later—not when Dean hadn't even meant for this here to happen. Dean probably should clear that up, make sure they both knew where they stood, what this was, and most of all what it wasn't. But in that second, Castiel, who'd been bidding goodbye to their waitress after leaving her a hefty tip, turned back to him. His smile widened.

"Come on," he said. Dean was helpless but to follow.

Castiel made them take a bus, then walk until they reached the bay. The tide was half-way between high and low, without Dean being able to determine in which direction it was going at first glance. The sun had already set, sparing them an awfully clichéd moment and leaving nothing but a bright, reddish glow on the horizon that faded into purple, followed by a darkening blue. Its leftover light reflected itself on the water, giving it a milky shine interspersed by an ever shifting mosaic of shadows, quiet ripples barely disturbed by the light breeze and the flight of gulls and terns. Dean could hear their cries carried by the wind, the faint splash of water against wooden posts and amongst the reeds, both almost drowned out by the continuous rumble on the freeway behind them. Everything felt hushed, soothing, underlined by the smell wafting up to meet Dean's nose, salty and wet with an acrid note rising from the mudflats.

They watched as the last of the daylight slithered away to be replaced by a riot of lights dotting the other side of the bay, dancing on the water. Castiel turned away from them and slowly led the way back towards campus.

It didn't take Dean long to realize it was a well-known, well-loved path of his. Castiel kept drawing his attention to something or other, mentioning things he'd seen one time at that corner, down that street. He stuck close to Dean's side, their shoulders brushing, his hand nudging Dean's arm or elbow on the pretense of catching his attention or of steering him in another direction—and if Dean hadn't noticed by now what this was, of what Castiel thought it was, he probably would've clued in right there and then.

He wasn't stupid. He was very familiar with attraction, knew how to acknowledge its pull and recognized its signs in someone else. Even though he'd rarely let himself feel it when it was directed at another man, he couldn't deny its presence now—if only because of how strong it was, impossible to do away with and ignore. The worst was that he wasn't even trying to. He should have, he knew; this couldn't lead anywhere, so he should've pulled back. But at the same time he couldn't, defenseless against what he saw every time Castiel caught his eye, every time his face crinkled into that smile.

Most of all, he didn't _want_ to. It felt so nice, effortless and exhilarating—and safe, too, the usual terror that filled him every time he felt himself drawn to another man absent. Because it was Castiel, whom he'd missed, as absurd as it was, and it was nothing but freeing, but a relief to let go, to let himself feel and be around him. So really, why couldn't he enjoy it? It wasn't for long, it would only be for that one evening, until they both went back to their respective lodgings for the night, to their lives, their family. It wouldn't lead to anything—not anything concrete, at least. It wasn't doing any harm. It was just them, being together and feeling good. Didn't they both deserve that much?

Except that after what felt like much too short a time, Castiel slowed down to a halt. Dean understood that they'd reached his building—close to campus, a privilege granted to med students with a specialty in healing magic to spare them any long commute in the state of exhaustion they often ended up in.

"That was nice," Dean said, sticking his hands into his pockets and trying to cover up his dismay under that echo from the last time they'd seen each other.

Castiel recognized it and chuckled. He wasn't the type to openly laugh. His amusement took the form of smiling huffs and brief but honest grins which made Dean feel thrilled every time he managed to summon one. "Yeah?"

Dean nodded, eyes darting away, gaze losing itself into the darkened street. His dismay was growing, curdling into an unpleasant sort of sadness, not yet bitter but—

"Dean," Castiel said, soft and quiet, only audible thanks to the silence surrounding them and to how close they were standing.

Dean couldn't help but to follow the call. He turned back towards his friend and whispered, "Yeah?"

Castiel's answer didn't come in the shape of words. His hand had already closed around the lapel of Dean's shirt, and Dean should've known—no, he _had_ known, not even by instinct but only because it was obvious, it was the natural ending he'd known they'd reach even though he'd pretended it wasn't the case. When Castiel tugged on his shirt it was the easiest thing in the world to just obey his mute request, to fall right into it.

Castiel kissed him, gentle, tender. Dean's eyes fluttered closed. It felt like a first breath after minutes underwater, a first mouthful of fresh water after a long afternoon in the heat of summer. He titled his head to the side to savor it better. Castiel's lips came back more firmly, parting, nipping, his hand cupping the back of Dean's neck, ruffling up the short hair on Dean's nape, sending a shiver rippling down Dean's spine. Dean let out his breath through his nose, deep, almost trembling. He rested a hand on Castiel's hip to ground himself and Castiel's hand in his hair tightened.

"Dean," he murmured, his voice a longing rumble.

It was a split second—but it was enough, for Dean to blink his eyes open, to blink out of it. To realize what was happening, what he was doing. It took all of his strength for him to pull back.

"Wait, wait," he said, stepping back because Castiel had stepped forward. The night was mild but suddenly he felt cold. "No." He met Castiel's confused gaze. "We can't," he said. "I'm sorry. We can't."

Castiel's hands, which had been hovering mid-air, reaching, returned to his sides. At first his face grew blank against the rejection, shuttered—before he paused. His eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Why?" he asked.

"You know why."

Castiel's lips tightened, the last remnants of hurt fading entirely. He straightened up. "I thought you were going to live," he said.

It felt like a slap to the face. "Don't—"

"Don't what?" His chin inched up, as defiant as the look in his eyes.

"We can't do this, okay? We can't just—" Dean had to look away. "I can't do that to you." _And to me_ , he didn't add.

"Do what?" Castiel edged, clearly intent on making him say it.

"We can't just, just _start_ something," Dean burst out. "Not when we both know it can't lead anywhere."

Castiel took another step forward. This time Dean refused to back down. "Don't get ahead of yourself," Castiel said. "I'm not offering forever here. Neither of us is."

"Yeah?" Dean snapped, stung, because maybe Castiel wasn't, but maybe _he_ was. Or would be, if he could. Except that it wasn't the case, and wasn't that the whole problem? "Well, we both know this ain't some random one-time hook up either, is it?"

Castiel's eyes didn't leave his, bright in the darkness. "No," he admitted, quieter. "It isn't." He took a breath. "I just don't see why we can't have it, since we both want it."

"Why we—" Dean repeated, only to break off. "Because what's the point, Cas?"

"What's ever the point of starting a relationship, Dean?" Castiel asked rhetorically. "You say this wouldn't lead anywhere. Why not?"

"Because in case you've forgotten I'm gonna die! And soon!" Dean hissed and damn Cas, _damn_ him, he just had to make him come out and say it, didn't he?

"And?" Castiel pushed, merciless. "In the meantime, what does it change?"

 _Everything_ , Dean wanted to reply, but his last words had taken his voice with them, leaving him to glare, throat too tight to produce any sound.

"Nothing," Castiel went on, interpreting his silence as a lack of answer, or interpreting it right but rejecting its meaning. "It will have no impact on whether or not this… this thing between us, this relationship, works out or not. None."

 _But what if it does work out, only to be cut short far too soon?_ Dean thought, wanted to ask, but didn't—partly because his voice still failed him, partly because he didn't want Castiel to reply that the chances were slim that it'd come to that anyway. He knew, deep within himself, that he wouldn't go into this without thinking and hoping that it'd last. From the way he felt already, how could he not? So hearing that Castiel didn't feel the same way would be far too painful—even though it wasn't unexpected. Already guessing it from what he was saying was enough.

"And until then, we can't know how it'll turn out. Dean," Castiel said when Dean huffed, forcing him to look him in the eye, "nobody ever knows. A relationship can work, and it can not, both for multiple reasons. And if it does work," he added, fingers inching up the collar of Dean's shirt, brushing against Dean's neck, his cheek, where they lingered, cupping his jaw when Dean helplessly leaned into them, "there's no way to foresee what can happen, what outside circumstances will do."

"Except there is," Dean managed to mumble.

"So you've got some kind of heads up," Castiel said. "But it's exactly the same for those who haven't. That's life for you. I see it— _we_ both see it every day. How fickle it is, how easily and suddenly it can end." Dean briefly squeezed his eyes shut, because he knew. Oh, did he know. "And it's okay. I mean, that's how things are: someday you will die, everybody dies, and it can— it _will_ always happen before you, or they, are ready. I could— I could even be the one going first."

Dean shook his head. "You _saw_ —" he started, but Castiel silenced him, two fingers coming to rest against his lips.

"I like to believe that the future isn't fixed. Don't you?"

"It sure feels like it is," Dean replied. Ever since he'd seen that great nothing in Brady's mirror he hadn't been able to shake the fright it had sent through him.

"In any case," Castiel said, eyes dark and sure, "I know what I'm getting into. And I understand why you might be reluctant to enter this." His gaze hardened minutely, making Dean understand his next words were to be listened to attentively. "But if you decide not to, don't say you're doing it on my behalf. At least be honest enough to admit you're doing it on yours."

Dean heard the implication loud and clear. "I'm not scared," he lied.

"Yes, you are," Castiel calmly said. "I am too. As I said, it's okay. It's normal." He sounded so quiet, so certain. Dean couldn't help but close his eyes and give in, rest his forehead on his shoulder. It felt so solid, reassuring almost. "It's human," Castiel whispered, head turning towards Dean as his hand came to rest on Dean's nape, warm and grounding.

"So what if I am?" Dean mumbled, snatching the bottom of Castiel's shirt between his fingers.

"Then nothing," Castiel said. He scratched the base of Dean's skull.

"And what if, knowing all that, I still say no?"

Close as he was, he clearly felt how Castiel briefly froze, how his fingers faltered in their soothing caress. "Then I'll be sorely disappointed," he admitted. "But—" He swallowed, the sound loud so close to Dean's ear. "But that's your decision, so I'll respect it. I might not be entirely agreeable about it, or pretend I approve—and I'd be terribly frustrated, of course," he went on, tone growing cautiously lighter, because of course he'd noticed that Dean hadn't made a single attempt to move away yet. He was probably guessing that he wouldn't.

"Damn it," Dean hissed, burying his head in the crook of Castiel's neck and tightening his hold on his shirt. He took a deep, bracing breath—full of Castiel's smell, mixed with the tang of his sweat and of the dust clinging to his shirt, with the faint leftover notes of his aftershave. When he straightened up, the man followed his every movement, unblinking as if he feared Dean would disappear were he to look away for a second. His gaze was expectant, hopeful even, but still marred with uncertainty—up until Dean cupped his face between his hands, at which point he stopped moving, stopped breathing.

"You're something else," Dean said. "You know that?"

This time, he was the one to initiate the kiss. It couldn't have been more clumsy and fumbling, stumbling on Castiel's sudden smile, on their ensuing huffs of laughter—until they got their first proper taste and focused on savoring it, on chasing it, on finding ways to make it even better.

They kissed for a long time, standing in the middle of the deserted street. It was unhurried, it was delightful—and it was careless, too, something they both realized when a car drove by and they remembered that no matter how it felt, they weren't quite alone here. They looked at each other, breathless, dazed and the slightest bit incredulous.

Castiel murmured, "Come inside?"

Dean said yes.

 

*

 

In the end, of all the nights Dean spent in Palo Alto, only the last one found him sleeping on Sam and Zach's couch. It was after Cas had left for Illinois, where his family home was.

That slight change of plans didn't cut much into Dean's time with his brother. Even on holiday, Sam was a busy bee in the morning; he enjoyed getting up early and going for a run before taking a nice long shower. Dean, on the contrary, liked to sleep in when he could and managed to. He liked to lounge in bed, to take his time before he dragged himself out of it—a number of differences that meant the brothers often didn't come together before the clock struck eleven, if not later. So it didn't change much if Dean lazed around at Cas' instead, before meeting his brother for brunch. Well, it didn't change much for Sam. For Dean and Cas, it made all the difference.

After that, sometimes Cas would accompany Dean to see Sam, and sometimes his resolve would be strong enough for him to head to the library instead. During the day the brothers wandered around town, fought for the Mario Kart cup on the old N64 Dean had let Sam take with him when he'd left for college, ran errands—amongst which to buy Sam a couple of suits and a whole array of shirts for his internship because, much to Dean's amusement and Sam's utter panic, he hadn't thought of it earlier. At the end of the day, before or after dinner depending on whether Sam had made plans with friends or not, Dean would leave with Cas, or find him again if the man had managed to go study.

Sam was a bit confused by that turn of events. He'd had no idea that Dean and Cas had become friends and kept in touch since his birthday, even less that their friendship had taken such a turn. The latter especially took him off-guard. Not because he hadn't known Dean could be attracted to men—that much he'd suspected for years—but because he hadn't thought his brother would ever act on it.

Dean couldn't very well tell him what exactly had given him the decisive push to at least acknowledge that part of himself. Yet Sam didn't fall too far off the map when, while reflecting out loud that it wasn't that surprising that Dean and Cas had gravitated towards each other during his birthday, he paused. And asked:

"Did you see each other? Together? I mean, in the scrying mirror." He spoke with a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, with the delight, impossible to conceal, of the hopeless romantic he was at heart, clearly enamored by the idea that he might have been the one to bring the both of them together.

That was maybe the most surprising, here: Sam's easy acceptance of Dean starting something with one of his acquaintances, more, with one of his friends—miles away from his warnings upon their first arrival. But maybe it wasn't. Maybe it was just that obvious that this, what Dean and Cas were doing, wasn't a random hook-up. That it meant something more to the both of them, and not only because it was Dean's first relationship with a man.

That had meant something to Dean too, of course—and Cas had been understanding about it, patient, willing to let Dean choose what he wanted to do and when, how far and how fast they'd go, simply intent on making it good for him, for them. Except that under the laser-like focus of his eyes, under the careful but sure ministrations of his beautiful hands, it had been so much more than _good_. It had been mind-blowing. It had been a revelation.

Even now, Dean was left reeling.

"Something like that," he belatedly replied, knowing that Sam would interpret the vagueness of his answer as veiled embarrassment and, even though he might tease, wouldn't press for more details.

"Does mom know?" he asked.

"No," Dean said. "There was nothing to know when I left." Yet there had been. There was no way Mary hadn't noticed the rate at which he'd been texting as of late, a lot more than he usually texted Sam or his friends and colleagues in Lawrence.

"But you're going to tell her, right?" Sam pressed, having noticed how quickly and abruptly Dean had answered.

For a second, the mere thought held Dean frozen, scared of Mary's reaction—but surely it wouldn't be that bad. His mom wasn't his dad, and she'd never been shy to underline their differences of opinion whenever they happened.

He just couldn't remember her ever expressing one on that matter.

"Yeah, of course," he mumbled. "But maybe not just yet. It's— It's still very new."

Maybe there wouldn't even be time for his silence to become an issue. The thought came unbidden, sobering and cold, cooling the burn he could feel in his chest, rising towards his cheeks.

Sam remained silent. When Dean glanced over, he saw how his expression had softened, melted almost, like it did sometimes when he was faced with an eager but clumsy puppy in the park. It made Dean prickle.

He counter-attacked with a question about Jess—and was relieved when Sam took it as a sign that the conversation should be steered elsewhere.

 

*

 

"Living, okay?" Cas had said against his lips when they'd parted the day previous. They'd been in the car, after Dean had driven him to SJC for his flight. They'd said their goodbyes there, so as to remain unnoticed, undisturbed.

"Yeah," Dean had said before kissing him again. Cas had pulled back, had searched his eye as if to make sure he'd meant it.

He'd found what he'd been looking for and smiled, allowed another kiss.

"I'll see you soon," he'd said.

"Yeah," Dean had repeated, because he hadn't been able to say anything else, not with his knotted throat, not through the wish to grab Cas, to tighten his hold on his hand, to refuse to let go.

He remembered that urge now, a little over a day later, as he drove through San Jose and left it behind on his way back to Kansas—and of all the times he'd started the drive back from California, he didn't remember one when he'd less wanted to go.

 

*

 

Going back to Kansas, to work, to nothing but all too brief contacts over such a long distance wasn't easy—especially not after these few perfect days, after that first delicious taste. Dean and Cas still talked, rang each other as often as they could despite Dean's busy schedule and the time difference, wrote texts and emails, all these ways through which their friendship had first bloomed. But even though they were still friends, best friends Dean would've said, they also were something else entirely now.

Now Dean knew how Cas' skin and hair felt like under his hands, had felt his warmth, his strength, the play of his muscles and bones against the pad of his fingers. He knew how his mouth tasted—how his whole body tasted—he'd started to discover the countless shades of his eyes, the myriad of expressions of his face, the many shapes his lips could take around words, the infinite number of movements his hands were capable of—and he wanted to learn them all. He knew how his voice sounded as it called his name without the barrier of miles and wire, as it whispered in his ear, stumbled into a soft laugh, gave up on words to gasp or grunt or moan in delight—or faded, slowly but surely, into deep, regular breaths during the night, when Cas slept.

Dean missed it all already, wanted it back, and was keenly aware that he might never get it. Or that even if he did, it wouldn't be for long.

For now it was back to his usual life, back to work. The contrast stood out all the starker in the harsh white light of the morgue. Tuesday morning and here Dean was, staring down at death: it had the face of a young man. A kid, really, far too thin for his age and height, far too pale. His lips were bloodless, his closed eyes circled with purple, his skin pasty, his hair limp. He'd been found right before dawn. Overdose.

"From the looks of it he just OD'ed on a classic mix," Tessa, one of their forensic surgeons, said, coming back with the folder containing the analysis results. "We couldn't find any trace of magic."

"Question is, was it really a classic mix or did the magic leave the body as soon as it shut down," Dean muttered, taking the file and leafing through it but not catching much of what it held. His head was abuzz, the numbers and words on paper nothing but gibberish. He would have to trust Benny and the others to read that one correctly.

Three weeks ago Dean had left what he—and the whole precinct—had thought was a solved case; the results of a bunch of stupid teenagers dabbling around with magic to try and enhance their high and maybe—why not?—make some profit out of it.

Only three days after his departure, their leader, Ruby, had been found dead in her cell, drained of all vital force. The forensic team was still trying to figure out if someone had done this to her, to prevent her from talking, or if it had been the results of drugs and magic flushing out of her system. And now, even though the wannabe gang had been found out and arrested, people kept turning up crazed, drained or dead.

It had made it clear that while that group may have been the first, they weren't the last. While Dean had been traipsing around the country with Sam or discovering the hidden delights of anal sex with Cas, Benny and the rest of the team assigned on the case had come to realize that these kids, knowingly or not, had been part of something much bigger. There were signs of a whole network reaching from Topeka to Kansas City, maybe even further, for which that little cell had been nothing but an attempt to extend their business to a smaller city, and maybe turn it into an anchorage.

All of this they should and could have noticed earlier. This was the harsh reality looking Dean in the face in form of an idiot kid who hadn't known any better, and whom they hadn't been able to protect. They could and should've suspected it from the start, actually, as soon as magic had gotten involved. After all, there was no way a bunch of amateur teenagers could've come up with a spell complex enough to enhance drugs and do so durably.

There was a reason such drugs had never made an outbreak. Not only were they pretty hard to create, but magic, like all forms of energy, like warmth or electricity, was very difficult to storage and eventually flowed out of any container used to hold it. Yet this time a way seemed to have been found, making the magic stick long enough for the drug to be stored, distributed, sold and used. That, or there was a spell to be casted right before taking the it, which would explain why all the dealers they'd caught up until now all had had some form of magic ability.

They didn't know for sure, though—and while they were cluelessly groping around people were still suffering and dying out there. Great.

"You okay?" Tessa asked. Dean realized he'd gone back to staring down at the teenager's gaunt face, and through it, at the ugliness of that whole situation.

"Yeah, yeah, I just…" He rubbed at his burning eyes. "I'm having a hard time getting back into things."

He hadn't been back a week and already he was fraying at the edges. He had grown complacent—while Sam had been visiting, back when this looked like nothing but a case about kids doing dumb things but meaning no real harm, and even more while he'd been in California with Cas. He'd been distracted then, hadn't seen the situation for what it was. He'd even forgotten what his own situation was. His days had grown brighter and his sleep had been deep, undisturbed. He'd had little reason to ponder on the unfairness of life, on its fleetingness, on the ugly dark abyss it led right to while he'd been showered with Cas' smiles, surrounded by his warm embrace, lulled by the strong, regular beats of his heart and the soft, deep whisper of his breaths.

Now he couldn't ignore it any longer. His sleeplessness was back with a vengeance, his fear of dying only counteracted by the ghosts and shadows of the people he'd sworn to help but hadn't been able to save.

"Does it ever happens to you?" Dean found himself asking. "After being away, when you end up back here, poking at corpses all day long?"

Tessa gave him a faintly confused look. "Not really, no."

"I don't know how you do it."

"Good thing that's not your job, then, officer," she said with a soft smile.

For some reason, Dean couldn't refrain from pushing. "It never, I don't know, freaks you out? Being surrounded by all these bodies, knowing that one day it might be you on that table."

Tessa's brow furrowed in puzzlement. "That's just how things are," she said plainly. "My job isn't to ask myself existential questions, especially ones that don't have an answer. It's to find evidence. Which I did, you can read all about it in here." She gestured at the file Dean was holding. "Now it's up to you to see if you can use it to try and prevent more bodies from turning up."

It was a dismissal, which became obvious when Tessa threw the sheet back onto the dead teenager and pushed the drawer closed. Yet Dean lingered.

"And don't worry," she said with another smile. "If you ever end up as a mystery on my table, I'll be very careful when I cut you up so you'll be as good as new for your burial. Unless you'd prefer to be cremated?"

By now Dean was keenly aware he shouldn't have asked. He knew Tessa, he knew how matter-of-fact she could be about all of this, how she expected her coworkers to be the same. It shouldn't have come as a surprised that she didn't give him the kid-glove treatment she reserved for the next of kins who came down there to identify a body.

"I never really thought about it?" he said.

"Well, that's just irresponsible," Tessa said, walking back to her computer. "When someone dies, family and friends have better things to do than try to determine what they would've liked, trust me."

"I'll… keep that in mind."

"Good," Tessa agreed, already moving on.

"I'll go now," Dean said, and did.

He shuddered on his way out, chilled to the bone and not only because of the low temperature kept at the morgue. He couldn't get the image of that kid lying on the table out of his head, nor could he erase Tessa's words. 'If you ever end up on my table," she'd said, but to him, it sounded like a when.

It would've been nice, if his clumsy, implied plea for help dealing with all this had prompted more than confusion from her part. Since he'd met her she'd always seemed to sail through days with death at her side without problem. He didn't understand how she did it. Too bad it meant she didn't understand how he didn't.

It might've been better if it had been Pamela here, with her constant teasing and flirting, her obvious appetite for life. But right now she was down at the lab with Ash, trying to figure out what they could find from the samples they had: vials of blood, and merchandize that they'd taken from the dealers they'd caught but which, by the time it reached their analysis table, had turned into nothing but standardized drug pills or powder bags. The team on the field—the team Dean was on—still hadn't managed to get its hands on the active product. Those who'd taken it and survived _and_ were still able to answer questions weren't clear about how the high had happened.

"Clearly the drug's in its first introduction stage," Rufus summed up during one of their meetings. "Up until now it's only been offered when people weren't in possession of all their thinking abilities, if you see what I mean."

"Dead drunk or sky high?" Jo muttered from where she was leaning against the wall.

"It's a clue." Benny leaned back in his chair when everyone turned to him and shrugged. "I mean, maybe what happens when the drug gets administered ain't something any sane, sober person would agree to."

"Yeah?" Captain Singer said, unimpressed. "Well, that's too bad, 'cause it means your clue gets us jack for this investigation—with a side of squat." His voice betrayed the frustration they all felt. The investigation wasn't going anywhere.

Dean, sitting at a corner of the table with his arms crossed, knew that they, that _he_ , should've been able to do more.

"I can hear you beating yourself up all the way from here," Benny said after the meeting had been closed. He'd probably noticed how silent Dean had been throughout, and he was very familiar with his brand of guilt. "You should really stop that," he added, like it was that easy.

Usually it was, or at least Dean managed to channel that guilt into hard work and determination, into a dedication to the case that had always proved fruitful. This time he wasn't even managing that.

"Man up, Winchester," was Jo's reaction on her way out of the room. She was much less patient than Dean's partner. As the station's youngest recruit, still considered the newbie despite the fact that she'd graduated from the academy over a year ago, she didn't cut anyone any slack. Her rule of thumb was this: if her petite yet strong-willed self could do it, anyone else here could. Obviously Dean's recent performance hadn't been up to that standard. "I don't know what's wrong with you lately but you're all but useless. We don't have time for pity parties, you know?"

"I know," Dean grumbled, irritated by her attitude but most of all angry at himself.

Out of everyone at the station, Donna was maybe the one he felt safest with. "Ugly business, all that," she'd say whenever she saw them coming out of a meeting, shaking her head and simply acknowledging the situation for what it was. "Here, have a donut."

Most of the time, Dean would take her up on her offer. Comfort food didn't solve much, but he sure needed the pick-me-up. In his opinion everyone in the station did, for one very simple reason. With the case taking on such a larger scale and now getting mixed up with magic crime, what they all feared had happened: the feds were getting involved.

"It's a downright mess," Dean mumbled one evening, running a hand down his face. On the other end of the line Cas, back from a long day at the retirement home, let out a small, sympathetic sound. "And I can't do anything useful. We have nothing but an endless pile of paperwork, questions without answers and leads leading nowhere—and even if they did it would be useless, what with the feds breathing down our necks and me being…" He trailed off, thumped his head back on the couch cushion. "Fuck, I used to be good at this shit."

"You still are," Cas said at once, utterly certain.

"Maybe," he said in reply to Cas' support, even as he thought, throat tight, eyes riveted to the ceiling above him, _No I'm not_.

He was all over the place. Even if his evening outings at the bar had stopped, he still slept badly; he drank too much, and he was unable to focus properly. As a result, he had a hard time figuring out the simplest, most obvious things, couldn't connect the dots in a bunch of seemingly unrelated information as he used to before. There was a time everything came to him as easy as breathing. Now his performance suffered and everyone had noticed, even though they didn't know why. Most of them thought it had to do with the case, with so many of the victims being so young, because everyone knew Dean was always more affected when kids were involved. They were right, to a point. And he sure wasn't going to tell them about the rest, about what really made his temper go up and down like it did.

One day he'd be almost listless, lacking all motivation to even try since they made little to no progress and since in the—improbable—event they solved this case, found the culprits and put an end to their trafficking, others would inevitably come and he wouldn't have made any difference. On another day he'd be petrified at the mere thought of being on the field, because the bigger this case became, the higher his chances were of being that poor bastard who asked the wrong question in the wrong place at the wrong time and ended up among the casualties of the investigation. Such risks were part of the job, he'd always known it; but it was one thing to be distantly aware of it, and another altogether to have proof that he'd probably die that way. Yet on some days he'd be eager for it, ready to go in and go down all guns blazing, to do everything he could to find something, anything, with little care about what might happen. For that attitude, who put not only him but also the rest of the team in danger, he'd gotten more than one dressing down from Captain Singer already.

Thing was, his superior and the rest of his colleagues didn't expect Dean to be okay. None of them were, not quite. But they needed him to be able to hold it together, to remain reliable, to at least pretend. Dean used to be very good at that—hell, that was why he'd always excelled at undercover work. But right now, when they were in dire need of that talent—of someone passing for a dumb college kid on vacation willing to try anything once, for a wannabe rebel trying way too hard and therefore easy to manipulate, for a lost soul in tight jeans and a frayed shirt ready to do anything to forget his life, if only for a minute—Dean didn't step up to the plate. He fumbled right in the middle of it, made stupid mistakes that made people's walls go right back up instead of waiting for the information to come to him, found himself unable to flirt his way through anything like he would have before.

Jo, who was usually nearby playing the same game, had first found it hilarious. Now, with every failed outing, she grew more and more aggravated—and Dean felt worse and worse about himself, about the case, about Cas, even, because every attempt to seduce answers out of people felt wrong, now.

Dean couldn't very well tell him that, though.

And he decided there and then that he was done talking about it. "But what about you, man? How are things, did you finally manage to get a hold of—which cousin was it?"

"Gabriel," Cas replied after a beat, clearly uncertain of whether or not he should let the matter drop. Fortunately, he chose to follow Dean's lead this time. "And yes, we managed to reach him. At last."

"And?" Dean prompted, sensing there was more. After all, over the two weeks Cas had spent with his family, Gabriel's utter silence had been source of many speculations and drama. Surely it hadn't stopped now that he'd been found.

"And that's a complete mess too, although of a different kind."

"What happened?" Dean asked, catching the strain in Cas' voice. Even without it he would have had suspicions: he was starting to understand that, with Cas' family, there was always something going on—it was bound to, given the amount of people it comprised—and that it always unleashed enormous amounts of drama—it was also bound to, with people so strong-headed that they made Cas— _Cas_!—look like an obedient lamb in comparison.

"He got married," Cas said. "Well, eloped, more like. Which isn't going well with my uncle and aunt, since up until now none of their children had entered matrimony or even shown any wish to." Dean racked his brain to remember who those children were. He came up with Michael and Luke, the terrible duo, and Rafaela, whom the couple had adopted as a baby once the missus had stopped trusting her husband's abilities to provide the right chromosomes for the daughter she'd always wanted. "It would figure that when one of them does, it would not only be the one they least expect, but that he'd also marry a complete stranger in secret, without any warning. I mean, he didn't even tell _me_."

Cas sounded so peeved that Dean found himself laughing, incredulous and fond. The guy's family was completely crazy and yet Cas fit right in, despite his quirks—or maybe because of them. No matter how far they went, or how much fuss they made about what often turned out to be nothing, he never ran out of caring. He might complain a lot, and yet Dean knew he wouldn't have it any other way.

"So yes, things are a little bit complicated. My mother and aunt are trying to track him down and at least have him come with his wife for a visit. But it's kind of hard to send an invitation when you lack an address and don't even know one of the recipients' name."

Dean snorted, loudly.

"I'm so glad my family can be of amusement to you," Cas dryly said.

Dean sobered a bit. Cas was right. It was easy for him to find all this nothing but funny. He wasn't close to any of these people, wasn't concerned by the tensions that developed between them. He didn't care about them the way Cas did.

"You should write a book," he said. "Or write a series. It'd be very—what's the word?"

"Cathartic," Cas replied at once. "And you're probably right, but I'm not much of a writer. I'll leave that to Balthazar, or to dear old uncle Marv. They both need the money." He stretched and the sound of it filled Dean with a now familiar longing, made his skin prickle with the wish to be there when Cas settled back down, to fit their limbs close together and rest. "In the meantime Hannah should be arriving soon, so hopefully things will get better. She's always been very good at mopping up this type of mess."

"You must be glad you didn't give into their attempt to make you stay a third week and chose the retirement home instead, aren't you?"

Cas sighed. "You have no idea."

 

*

 

Of course no sooner had they said that that drama caught up with Cas; it seemed to follow the members of his family like a swarm of bees their hive when a keeper moved it. True, the drama in question was more innocent, since it surrounded a bunch of oldies. But it still meant that Cas didn't get much respite—not between the great cartoon fan who could get… upset when someone turned off the TV or changed the channel, the grandma who kept mistaking Cas for her third husband ("Should I be jealous?" Dean asked), the other grandma who loved to bake delicious pastries but threatened anyone coming close to them with a knife, or the gigantic flirt who didn't realize he was fifty years past the age at which it would've been appropriate or efficient.

Coincidentally, the last one bore the same name as Dean.

"Should I _really_ be jealous?" Dean asked, far too amused. Listening to Cas talking about his life had rapidly become the highlight of his day whenever they could make it work.

"Up until now he's only turned on the charm for the women on the team," Cas said.

"Eh," Dean said. "His loss."

" _My_ loss. He keeps shouting me out of his room as soon as I step in for a check-up, asking for 'the hot one' instead. I still have to figure out who that is."

" _You're_ the hot one," Dean purred. "Doctor."

"Not a doctor yet," Cas distractedly dismissed, clearly too absorbed to recognize Dean's attempt to turn the conversation into something else for what it was.

Which was how all of Dean's attempts to bring sexy talk into play had gone up until now. Dean was starting to suspect that, apart from when Dean was standing right in front of him being all warm and tempting, Cas led a life that was pretty much sex-free. He'd never brought up the subject and had always talked right past Dean's own hints—not like he willingly and hurtfully ignored them, but more like he didn't even notice their presence.

Dean, who'd had high hopes for phone sex, was a bit frustrated. He guessed he probably should explicitly broach the topic, if only to be sure where Cas stood on the matter. He just hadn't found the right moment yet.

In the meantime he made do with memories of Cas' voice rumbling down the line when he spent some alone time with his hand.

"Maybe I should ask Carmen," Cas was musing.

"Unless she is The Hot One," Dean pointed out.

Cas hummed, part thoughtful, part distressed. Dean understood: he wouldn't like to be chased out of a room by flying slippers either.

It was almost a relief, therefore, when a little over a month later Cas returned to his studies and his shifts at the hospital. Not that it was restful or devoid of hardships; but at least he didn't get assaulted left and right by people who should've been far too old to move that fast. Besides, Cas was excited because he'd been included on the team appointed to complete a series of operations to help along the treatment of a young woman's brain tumor.

Dean was happy for him. He was even glad that, out of the both of them, at least one had things looking up at work. Dean, not so much. The case was still stagnating, the few leads they had leading nowhere, and the feds had arrived.

As expected, they were nothing but condescending jerks. They clearly thought that no one at the precinct knew how to do their jobs properly and that they knew better about _everything_ , even though they were new in town and couldn't have found the freaking post office on their own. Dean had a particular aversion for the agent they were most in contact with, Agent Henriksen. More than once he'd wanted to sock him in the jaw or nose—or, better, he'd wanted _Jo_ to sock him one, because she had a mean right hook, lightning quick and entirely unexpected.

As it was, he settled for working hard enough to beat them to the price and _show_ them. Up until now the guilt he'd been feeling towards the victims hadn't been enough for him to focus and stop floundering, but with his pride at stake he dove into the investigation with renewed vigor. Benny followed suit, then Jo, and even—or especially—Rufus.

It paid off. By the time September drew to an end, they'd gotten their hands on a stack of drugs still buzzing with magic and had found leads pointing right at an underground group in Kansas City with clear connections to larger ones in Chicago or, even further, Detroit.

"Damn," Henriksen said then, high on getting off the phone with his superiors. He clapped Dean on the back. Dean bristled. "I knew you couldn't all be _that_ useless."

Which was when Dean realized that the guy's obnoxious claims of superiority had all been made on purpose, had been nothing but an act to get a rise out of the station's personal. And that, out of everyone here, Dean had been the one to fall for it the hardest. He stared at Henriksen, torn between outrage at having been played like a fiddle and reluctant admiration that the agent had done it so easily. It might have turned into a reluctant admission that part of him liked the guy, if the agent hadn't left shortly thereafter, bound towards Missouri to follow up on the investigation there.

Things were far from over in Lawrence, though: they still had to find out how the drug was produced and maintained active—although now their small laboratory wouldn't be the only one slaving on that research—and to root out the branch of the network still trying to implant itself in Lawrence and Kansas. But it was progress.

His first reflex was, of course, to call Cas and tell him all about it. In between the guy's ever changing shifts, the hours he spent at Lane Medical Library, the time difference between their two states, the long nights Dean spent on the field pretending to be that college dropout too fucked to care about much of anything and proving it by getting blackout drunk night after night, and the hours during which they still had to sleep, they had some difficulties finding the time to talk since school had started back up—but they managed. They kept each other informed of their schedule as soon as they had an idea of what it was going to look like, learned each other's quirks and habits so they knew when they could call and when it was better to text.

Dean waited for such a propitious time to dial Cas' number. Which was, of course, when Cas stopped answering his phone.

He did so almost without warning. The second set of operation for that brain tumor had been scheduled and done and when Dean texted to know if Cas had made it out okay all he got was: _Yes_ , followed by: _Operation failed_.

And, after that somewhat contradictory couple of texts, nothing. He didn't answer Dean's following messages, nor Dean's attempts to call, nor his emails. Dean left messages on all three, worried and pressing, asking Cas to reply because, what did he mean, 'failed'? Failed as in 'we'll have to try again' or failed as in 'there will be no more trying'? And what did he mean, 'fine'? Dean _knew_ Cas, knew him down to his too caring core, and he knew that if the operation had failed, no matter what that meant, then Cas couldn't be fucking ' _fine_ '.

The worst was, there was little Dean could do. After a day and a half of no contact whatsoever—not even a goodnight text sent at 7 a.m. because that was their life—he convinced Sam to drop by Cas' flat. It wasn't difficult, since even though the both them didn't see or talk to each other as frequently as Dean and Cas now did, they were still good friends.

Sam came back with a mitigated report: after a long while of insistent knocking and ringing the doorbell, he'd gotten Cas to open the door. The guy had obviously been sleeping and, being the lovely grump he was upon waking—even more so when that happened against his will—had more or less scowled Sam out of his flat in under five minutes.

"He looked exhausted," Sam protested when Dean scolded him for giving up so easily. "I thought the best I could do was to let him rest."

Dean would've agreed, and would have been reassured to know that at least Cas was alive, if the guy had bothered to answer one of his messages, if only to tell him to fuck off and let him sleep. He'd done that once or twice already, when Dean had gotten the days wrong and had called him bright and early, thinking he'd find him awake and rearing to go to work, when instead he'd just collapsed into bed after a night shift not an hour earlier.

Dean wouldn't admit it, but he kind of loved grumpy Cas and his bluntness. But he—or any version of Cas—hadn't showed, and Dean couldn't find that normal. Which is why his heart leaped to his throat when, one day after Sam's failed scouting, his call was picked up.

"Cas?" he asked at once.

"Nope, not Clarence. Sorry," a female voice replied, sounding everything but.

Dean frowned. "Who's this?"

"I'm Meg. Hi." The name rang a bell. Cas had already talked about her—she was a colleague at the hospital, not a med student like him but, yes, that was it: a nurse. "And you're the infamous Dean," she drawled. "At last."

"You know about me?"

For some reason, he knew she was rolling her eyes. "Everyone knows about you and your innumerable qualities, sugar. Although to be honest, I'm not convinced." She didn't leave him the time to react to that and went on with, "Now I've been letting you take your sweet ass time to bring said ass here but now I'm done, so I'll be clear: you better drop by soon if you value your jewels. Poor Castiel here is down to surviving on crackers, and that really will not do. Boy needs his vitamins."

Damn it, Dean had _known_ Sam had been wrong to leave without investigating further. "What's wrong with him?" he asked.

"Why don't you come here and see for yourself?" Meg retorted.

"Because I _can't_. I can't come." In that second, he'd never hated the miles separating him from Cas more.

"And why is that, hotshot?" Meg asked, voice deceptively smooth, like a snake sliding on grass to come closer to its prey.

"I'm in Kansas."

There was silence on the other end of the line. "… Kansas," Meg repeated slowly.

"Yes, that's where I live."

"Well, that's just my luck," she said, exasperation coiling through her voice. "It figures Clarence would go for the unreachable, lonesome cowboy."

"I'm… sorry?" Dean said, which was the wrong thing to do, as it brought Meg's attention and ire right down on him.

"And here I thought his family was useless but you… you just take the cake," she said, quick and lethal like a scorpion. "Damn it."

Dean would have protested, but in that second he felt like she was entirely right.

"Well, he'll just have to make do with the takeout I'll order—if he can be bothered to open the door when the delivery comes. And to eat it afterwards."

"But what's wrong with him?" Dean asked again through the knot in his throat. "Was it the operation? Because last time he was tired, yes, but not to the point of being entirely unable to function. He went to Sam's party and all, and that was only a couple of days later, and he was all right."

"Of course he was all right, the patient didn't die right in the middle of the procedure." She paused. "But you didn't know that, did you?" she said in the tone of voice of someone who was very familiar with Cas' brand of not telling people what was wrong.

"I… suspected," Dean said. "He told me the operation had failed but—yeah, that's pretty much all he told me and since then…"

"Oh, but that's just great," Meg said, voice dripping with sarcasm. "You just have no idea, do you?"

"I—" Dean stuttered.

"What do you think happens when the patient bites it while all energy channels are wide open between her and her doctors, mh?"

Dean didn't reply, because he had no idea, beyond the fact that it sounded really bad.

It didn't seem to occur to Meg that his ignorance was what kept him silent, though. " _Exactly_ ," she said. "So now Castiel here is in some serious state of burn-out, and is in dire need of loving care. Which, since he's useless when it comes to choosing his men, falls right on me now. Just so you know, I don't do 'loving'. And usually, I get paid for this crap. At the hospital. Where I work—as a nurse, _not_ a maid. Which means I really don't have time to pick up your mess."

"I— If—" Dean fumbled. "I can wire you money to cover the expenses for—"

"Don't be a dumbass," she dismissed. "He'll pay me back once he's better. His family's loaded, I always feel like I'm making a good deed whenever I use their money."

"But—"

"And yes, he will get better," she said, finally noticing his worry, maybe. "He'll just take a bit longer than usual to get there." Her voice had softened minutely, but was no less abrupt when she added, "I'll have him call you as soon as he's recovered enough brain to navigate a phone."

Then she hung up, leaving him alone with his fear and concern, with his helplessness—and with his anger, at Cas for not telling him he wasn't okay, at Sam for not noticing, but mostly at himself for being so far away, for not realizing it could get that bad, for not being able to do more, to do _anything_ , really.

 

 

*

 

By the time Cas' phone call came, Dean had worked himself up into a near frenzy. All of his own attempts had gone unanswered, even by Meg, and Sam—

"Relax," he'd said when Dean had tried to convince him to go back to Cas'. "He's resting, he'll turn up in a week and he'll be fine. That's how it always goes when he operates."

"Except this time the operation went wrong, Sam," Dean had snapped. "He needs more than just rest, he needs—"

"No, he doesn't," Sam had cut him off. "Look, Dean, I've known him longer than you, okay? I know how it works."

"Do you?" Dean had challenged, stung.

" _Yes_. I know you're worried, but Cas is an adult, and that's how he wants it."

"But—"

Sam had talked over him, voice hardening. "And I don't know if you've noticed, but he doesn't like people getting all up in his business, especially on that matter. So excuse me for trying to respect that."

The implication that Dean, on the other hand, didn't, had infuriated him. "Yeah?" he'd said, temper and voice rising. "Well, all I hear and see here is that when he's down for the count because of his job you won't lift a damn finger to go help him. Now call that what you want, but I call that being one hell of a shitty friend."

"Dean—"

"But no, no, I get it, I do," he'd added with a fake smile. "You probably have tons of more important things to do anyway, what with preparing for law school and all that. After all, you barely have time to call your own family, why would you bother with the people you call friends?"

It had been a low blow, referring to how little contact he and Mary had had with Sam since his visit over the summer, first because of his internship, then because he was trying to start his last undergrad year with spectacular results and score an interview in hopes of obtaining a scholarship. But Dean had been hurt by his unwillingness to take the time to simply drop by Cas' flat—as he was by the fact that Sam apparently couldn't be bothered to pick up a phone for five freaking minutes a week.

Sam had had enough. "Okay, you know what, Dean? Fuck you."

"No, Sam. Fuck _you_ ," Dean had retorted, before hanging up.

So he was still worried, and mad at Sam, and hating to be mad at Sam—and when he saw Cas' name on his screen, he couldn't hit reply fast enough.

"Cas?"

"Dean." Cas' voice was small, tired, but it was a delight to finally hear it again. "Hello."

Dean blinked in the ensuing silence. 'Hello'? The dude virtually disappeared for a week, with nary a word, and all he had to say afterwards was ' _Hello_ '? Dean would've been seriously pissed if he wasn't so relieved.

"You okay?" he asked.

"I'm… better."

Dean waited for a beat, but nothing more came.

Okay, scratch that, he _was_ pissed.

"Care to elaborate on that?" he prompted, voice tense. When Cas again took a second too long to answer, he added: "No, no, wait. That's right, I got no right to ask, there's no reason you would keep me informed, or anyone for that matter. That's how it works, right?"

"Dean, what—" Cas paused. "You're angry."

He sounded, of all things, _confused_. Dean exploded.

"You bet your ass I'm angry," he snapped. "I've been worrying myself sick over you the whole week, you dick! What, it would have killed you to pick up a phone?"

"I… didn't think—" Cas stammered. "I was in no state to—"

"Yeah, and that's another thing," Dean cut him off. "How come I didn't know it could get that bad? Why didn't you tell me? Tell Sam?"

"I don't—"

"And what if your colleague here, Meg, hadn't been there, uh? They wouldn't have realized something was wrong until you didn't show up after your week off and they would've found you dropped dead in your flat, what?"

"Of course not," Cas said, voice firming. "I would've been fine."

"Well ex-fucking-cuse me for doubting that, Cas!" Dean exclaimed, not appeased in the least.

"I can take care of myself," Cas bristled.

"Can you?" Dean asked, only to falter right in the middle as his anger suddenly collapsed, a wave cresting and breaking onto the sand before retreating, almost meek, exhausted. He dug his fingers into his eyes. "I just don't get why—" He broke off. "I got the right to know that kind of things, Cas. That's part of the package, okay? And you gotta have a plan for when things go awry, or even when they don't. You have to take care of yourself—I mean, _really_ take care of yourself. Damn it, you could've— you could've come here."

"Dean…" Cas said, irritation fading from his tone.

"Clearly you do need someone looking after you when crap like this happens," Dean said, eyes still hidden behind his hand, still closed. The darkness, for once, was welcome. "And I would've done that, you asshole."

Cas let out a small sound. "I— I know." _Now I know_ , Dean realized he meant. After a second of silence he added: "It… would've been nice."

"Damn right it would've been nice. Besides—" He stopped.

"Besides?"

"How are we meant to see each other if you don't come when you have time off, man? You know I've spent all my paid leave 'till New Years, and— And I don't care if you're not in top form, I just—"

"I know," Cas said when he didn't go on, unable to get the words out. "I miss you too."

"Yeah," Dean huffed, rubbing a hand down his face. A lot of good it did them. It had been, what, nearly three months since they'd last seen each other? And from the look of it that wasn't going to change any time soon.

Really, what had they been thinking, starting this thing between them? What was even the point?

"Maybe…"

"Maybe?" Cas prompted when Dean trailed off. His voice was hesitant, reluctant almost, like he could already hear the words crowding on the tip of Dean's tongue: _Maybe we should stop here. Maybe should call it quits now_. Because building a friendship through texts and phones calls and sometimes emails had worked, but maintaining anything more? Not so much. The current situation had just proved it.

It was exactly like Cassie had said. Dean had been the one to suggest they try for long-distance, and she'd been the one to say no. No because they couldn't be there for each other, be what the other needed, with more than a thousand miles between them. No because they'd grow apart anyway. No because there was no way things would work between a small town cop and a hotshot journalist on the East Coast.

And maybe there were just as little chances for a small town cop with a hotshot doctor on the West Coast.

Dean cursed himself and his habit of falling for people that were so completely out of his league.

"Dean?"

He blinked, and he would've said all of this right there and then, if it weren't for how small, how tired Cas had sounded when he'd called his name. The guy had just come out of a harrowing experience, from which he was still struggling to recover, he was exhausted… Dean couldn't dump his doubts on him now, could he? And he was exhausted too. He'd been so worried, he wasn't thinking straight either.

Maybe he should wait, and see—and if his uncertainty maintained itself, then yes, they'd would talk about it. Later.

"Maybe we should be more far-sighted," he said instead.

"What do you mean?" Cas asked. His voice trembled.

"I mean that next time, you better have a plane ticket booked the _day_ you hear about an upcoming surgery," Dean replied, recovering a bit of his irritation.

"Yes, of course," Cas agreed at once, quiet and easy and relieved. "But, Dean. This time, I wouldn't have been able to—" He sighed. "A six hour long flight, with one stopover at least… I was in no state to do that."

"So I gathered." Dean squeezed his eyes shut. "That's the whole problem. Damn it."

"But hopefully next time will be better," Cas reassured him. "And we will plan. Although I have to tell you it might not be for a while. After what happened, the mandatory lapse of time before they assign me and my supervisor another case might be longer. But still. Next time, okay?"

"Okay," Dean mumbled, assuaged but still unhappy. He wanted Cas to be here already, to show him that there was something here, between them, something that made all of this worth it. Back in July it had felt so obvious, so natural, but now…

He just wished he'd been there after that failed operation, to make sure Cas slept okay, that he ate properly, that he didn't let the guilt he was undoubtedly feeling gnaw away at him too much. He wished the two thousand miles separating them would disappear.

But they didn't, and he hadn't been, and Cas wasn't here, so all he could do was say, "It just really, really sucks, you know?"

"Yes," Cas said. "I know."

He sounded tired, sad and slightly helpless, the way Dean felt after one fruitless all-nighter too many, or when he came back to the station after a sleepless night—or morning—only to find one more victim they hadn't been able to save.

"I'm sorry for yelling," he said.

"It's okay."

"No," he countered, soft but firm. "It's not."

"You were worried."

"That's no excuse. You're exhausted, and you don't need that, you don't need my crap on top of everything else. So. Sorry I'm a dick. I was worried, and I care, but I was still being a dick."

"You were a careful dick?" Cas prompted.

"I was a—" Dean started repeating, only to realize what Cas had just said and letting out a snort instead. "Don't make me laugh, you asshole."

"Well," Cas said. "At least we match."

Dean blinked. Still fraught with nerves, there was no way he could resist: he burst out laughing. On the other end of the line, he heard Cas' huff, that familiar, proud little sound of amusement. When it faded, they settled into silence, albeit a shared, smiling one. Comfortable enough for Dean to ask, "What happened, Cas?"

When the silence turned heavy at once, he hastily added, "I mean, if you don't want to talk about it, it's—"

"No, it's okay. It's—" Cas cleared his throat. "Her— She had a brain tumor."

"Yeah, I remember," Dean said.

"And we tried— The aim was to boost the healthy cells while draining the sick ones so that the latter would stop multiplying and the tumor stop growing, maybe even shrink, which would have made it possible for the surgeons to operate and remove it without risk. But—"

His voice faltered and failed on that word: but. So familiar to Dean's ears— _We caught the culprit, but. We got a helpful tip, but. We arrived on time on the scene, but_ —that in that second he wanted nothing more than to be right there with Cas, wrapping his arms around him, holding him together.

But.

"You feel everything, you know," Cas said, voice so low it was almost inaudible. "During an operation in which magic is involved, you can feel them, the patient. Life, magic, it's all energy. And—" He huffed out a breath, almost like a sob. "I felt her slip right through our fingers, through _my_ fingers. It was so sudden, so… simple and smooth, there was nothing we could do to stop it. I mean, we tried to hold her back, but my supervisor had to make us pull back before—" He broke off. _Before what?_ Dean wanted to ask, but didn't, because he didn't want to interrupt Cas—and because he feared what the answer would be. "And that moment, when she slipped out of our reach, when she just… dissolved…" He swallowed loudly. "I don't know any feeling worse than that."

Dean had no idea what to say to that, to help. 'I'm sorry'? 'It's okay'?

"And I feel like should've done more," Cas went on, almost snarled. "Like I _could_ have done more, if only I had—"

"If your supervisor dragged you back, then there was nothing you could do," Dean said, insistent because it was capital that Cas heard and understood that. "Not without harming yourself."

Cas didn't say anything, reluctant to agree.

"Look, I know how it is, okay?" Dean went on, because he'd been there. Hell, one day out of two, he still was. "I mean, not exactly but— Seeing people die, not being able to do anything about it, to help, or being too late, or making a mistake… Yeah, I've been there. And it sucks. Just plain sucks. And I know I should be telling you to let go, to move on, but I know it ain't that easy. And I know there's nothing I can do to make it better, especially not all the way from Kansas, but—"

"You do," Cas cut him off. "You do make it better."

Dean froze, swallowed. "I do?"

"Yes," Cas said. There was a small smile in his voice.

"Uh," Dean let out. "That's… That's good." His cheeks were burning. "Still, I wish— I know it'd be better if I were here. With you."

"I wish you were here too," Cas returned, because he never seemed to have a problem saying that kind of thing, not the way Dean did. "Next time—"

"Yeah," Dean agreed. "Next time."

 

*

 

Dean felt a little bit rueful the following morning. He hadn't slept much, not with how long his and Cas' conversation had lasted; but his sleep had been deep and restful, which was much better than what he'd had to make do with as of late. In the pale morning light he felt clear-headed, like he'd just stepped out of a fog—and, when he thought back on the week previous and on several conversations he'd had, he realized how… excessive he might've been.

 _I'm sorry for what I said_ , he sent Sam, who had taken the brunt of it. He didn't add _I was wrong_ , though, because part of him was still peeved on Cas' behalf that Sam refused to come stock Cas' fridge with the easy-to-warm-up meals the idiot had forgotten to buy this time and which had been sorely missed. Meg hadn't sounded like a nice person at all, but at least she'd made sure Cas was fed.

Instead he typed in quick succession: _I know preparing for law school is a bitch._

_And that you're doing the best you can._

_And I really hope you get in, 'coz you deserve it._

_If they don't see that fuck them, they suck and you deserve better anyway._

His phone buzzed as he was gathering his keys and ID to leave.

 _Thanks_ , Sam had written, followed by: _I know I let myself get absorbed by all this and forget about everything else. So, sorry for that_. He added: _I'll be home for Thanksgiving. I talked to mom & we booked my tickets_. There was a pause. _The prices are insane, btw. Airline companies are blood-thirsty vampires._

 _Sucks to be you_ , Dean replied.

 _Ha ha_ , Sam wrote back, unamused by the pun, as expected. _I'm face-planting on my desk, just so you know_.

Dean grinned, and kept grinning on his way to work, during which he made a detour by the small bakery where Donna usually got her donuts. He wasn't sure what his behavior had been like during the previous week. No memory of being particularly hate-worthy stood out to him, but from what had happened with Sam, he guessed it was better to come prepared and ready to suck up a bit.

He needed new tracking spells for that evening. They were extremely useful when trying to discreetly keep tabs on people or to find out a main hub of activity through the ones frequenting it; but like all things magic, they always faded sooner than later. They could last longer if they were properly done and if the caster was talented. And among all people working at the station, Charlie Bradbury was definitely the best.

She was also always extremely busy, monitoring the countless spells she had going and what they brought in. If you wanted her to do something for you, you'd better ask really nicely. And bring a bribe.

Dean considered himself lucky that, out of everyone at the station, he was the one with whom Donna had shared the address of the place she got her addictive donuts from. He hadn't asked for it, but she'd given it to him anyway after he'd comforted her after a run-in with her asshole ex-husband and given her a coupon for the spa where his friend Lisa worked, knowing she'd be treated well there. Apparently, she'd enjoyed the experience.

"Uh, hey," he said, stopping in front of Charlie's desk.

She rose an imperious index in the air, silently telling him to wait. Half a minute later, she finally glanced up.

"Winchester," she said, pleasant but wary. That was how Charlie almost always was with him: nice, but guarded, without Dean really knowing why. "What can I do for you? No wait," she added even before he'd had the time to open his mouth. "Let me guess: tracking spell?"

Dean sent her an awkward smile. "Going out tonight," he said with a shrug. "I have donuts?"

Charlie looked at him for a minute, entirely unimpressed by his charm—which only ever worked on Pamela, if Dean was being honest—before heaving a sigh and standing up.

"I need a break," she announced. " _Some_ people have been here since four a.m. and—yeah, coffee." Dean interpreted that as a dismissal, but she waved at him to follow her to the break room, where she collapsed on a chair and buried her head in her arms on the table. Dean went to the coffee machine, an antique, cranky thing from which only he could get anything decent, it seemed. Captain Singer and Rufus contented themselves with what they could make, which was a liquid so dense it was almost solid. Jo always ended up cursing up a storm and threatening to beat the thing into obedience. Ash had made it explode once.

Most people did the safe thing and went out to buy the mediocre slush sold in disposable cups at the shop around the corner. Not Dean. Dean was a man who liked his coffee, and didn't content himself with any sub-par overpriced preparation fallaciously carrying that name.

"So, you finally back with us humans, Winchester?" Charlie asked after she'd straightened up.

"What do you mean?" Dean said, measuring the exact right amount of grounds. It was all in the dosage: too much and the machine would start thinking itself a tar spreader; too little and you would end up with something strongly resembling mud water and tasting even worse.

His question was met with silence. When he glanced over his shoulder, Charlie was staring at him.

"Typical," she said, rolling her eyes. "You didn't even notice, did you?"

"Notice what?" Dean asked. He had a bad feeling.

"How you've been all grumpy grizzly bear over the past week?" She looked at him expectantly but all he could do was look at her, face blank. "Okay, remember those two teens you and Benny brought in?"

"Yeah," Dean said, returning to the machine and choosing the right setting. "They weren't here long, they fessed up pretty fast."

"Yeah, they did," Charlie said. "Because you scared the crap out of them. I'm pretty sure one of them peed his pants."

Dean frowned, trying to remember the scene. The kids had indeed looked spooked, but he'd assumed it was because they hadn't expected for something they did to feel cool and maybe make a little bit of money to go that awry and have them end up under arrest. "I didn't—" he started.

"Oh, you definitely did," Charlie cut him off. "I swear, if I didn't know you to be a teddy bear inside, I would've been creeped out too."

Dean rose his eyebrows. "I'm a teddy bear?" he asked with another glance backwards.

Charlie froze. "I mean," she stuttered, busying her hands by tugging the pastry bag Dean had put on the table closer to her and peering inside. "Like, you're a good guy? And you want to help people, which is why you chose this job?" She sounded placating. Dean wondered why she felt the need to be. Had he been that bad the week previous? "It just wasn't that obvious when you were glaring at them like you were wondering whose head to bite off first."

Apparently, yes.

"Uh," he said, starting the coffee machine. "Yeah, I— I was pretty tense the whole week, I guess. Sorry for that." As he talked he almost felt a phantom sensation in his shoulders, the weight he'd carried for days, heavier the longer Cas stayed silent. That he might've taken it out on his colleague, on poor unsuspecting suspects, made it even worse.

"Apology accepted," Charlie said, sounding bemused—until she added, "But, you know, you're not the only one who has shitty days. Most people just try and deal with them without treating the rest of the world like crap."

"I know," Dean said. He rubbed his eyes. "It's just— My boyfriend was— He was sick, kinda. And I—" He stopped, suddenly realizing what he'd just said.

Had he really called Cas his boyfriend? Out _loud_?

Worse, had he just done so in front of a colleague, one he barely knew?

He glanced back at Charlie, who was staring at him, eyes wide, donut frozen half-way to her lips.

Oh, crap. He had. _Shit_.

Charlie startled when she noticed him watching and took a bite of her donut, quick and nervous like a mouse. "Oh," she said while chewing. Her voice sounded a bit strangled, higher than usual. Dean was so screwed.

The silence stretched, almost unbearable. Mind whirling, he stared at the now gurgling machine, at the drops of dark liquid drip-drip-dripping down into the pot like it was the most fascinating thing in the world.

"And," Charlie said, so unexpected he almost jumped. "Your, um. Is he, like, better now?"

"What?" Dean said, turning around, before he realized who she meant. "Oh, yeah, yes. It was— It wasn't that bad, really. I kinda… overreacted?"

Charlie nodded as she finished her donut, then licked the leftover glaze from her fingers. There was a light in her eyes though, which prompted Dean to ask: "What?"

She shrugged. "Like I said: teddy bear inside?" she timidly said, like she wasn't sure she could tease.

Dean snorted. When the coffee finally finished brewing, he seized the pot to pour it into two mugs and brought them both to the table. He sat down opposite his colleague and slid one towards her.

"Go ahead," he said, seeing her indecisively peep at the content of the donut bag. She hadn't had any breakfast, he guessed, which was confirmed by how quickly she snatched another pastry. "You said everyone had bad days. Talking from experience?"

She seemed surprised, as if she hadn't expected him to make conversation. "Yeah," she said slowly. "I mean, it wasn't _that_ bad, just…" She sighed. "The weather was super shitty last weekend so our LARPing session was cancelled and I couldn't show off my kick-ass new costume. And I worked hard on that."

"LARPing?" Dean asked.

"Live action roleplaying? Come on, Winchester, don't play dumb," she entreated. "I know you know what it is. The whole station knows, I talk about it all the time. And I know for a fact that you were well within hearing range _and_ totally eavesdropping on at least two of these occasions."

"I wasn't—" Dean started, only to be stalled by an unimpressed look. "It's not eavesdropping if the person is talking loud enough for the whole room to hear, whether they want it or not," he said primly. "And I wasn't playing dumb."

"Uh-uh," Charlie muttered, clearly unconvinced. "And you're not judging at all."

"I'm not. I'm not!" Dean protested. "I always thought—" He interrupted himself, uncertain. After a bit he made himself admit: "It sounds kind of awesome, actually."

Charlie's eyebrows climbed all the way up to her hairline. "Really?"

Dean crossed his arms and remained silent. He'd already said much more than he'd planned, or even wanted—but he'd been honest. Wasn't that what he'd decided to do, now that he knew he had so little time left? Be honest with himself, and with others, about what he enjoyed?

Charlie was looking at him funny. A gauging pout formed on her lips and her eyes narrowed faintly before she said, "You're suffering from a Vulcan mind meld, Doctor."

"That green-blooded son of a bitch," Dean retorted automatically. "It's his revenge for all those arguments he—" He paused. "Why are you quoting Star Trek to me?"

Charlie's face bloomed into a beaming smile. "Aren't you just full of surprises this morning? You know," she went on, heedless of Dean's confused frown. "If you think LARPing might be your thing, I can take you to our next event."

It was Dean's turn to raise his eyebrows. "Yeah?"

"Yeah, of course. Anything to help your inner geek come out for good," she said with a small smile and shrug. "It might not be for a while, what with the crap weather and people being busy with Halloween and Thanksgivings and Christmas, but it will come. What do you say?"

Dean hesitated for a second, but really, what was there to stop him? His dignity, he would've said once, or the fact that he was a fucking man and therefore did not run around dressed up like a kid and waving plastic swords like a dork. But that was before Sam's birthday, before he realized that his time was almost up and that such so-called values were of absolutely no help when it came to that. All they did was prevent him from reaching for things that he might enjoy, that he might like—even love. They certainly didn't keep him warm at night, didn't help fence off the icy, lonely thoughts that refused to leave him. Admitting the truth, on the other hand, about who he was and what he wanted for what little life he had left—and for the life he wouldn't have… That would serve him, and other people, a lot better.

He had nothing to lose, at this point.

"Yeah, okay," he agreed.

"Yeah?" Charlie grinned.

"Yeah," he repeated, returning the expression.

"Awesome," she singsonged, before downing the rest of her coffee. "So that's settled. Just so you know," she added, pointing at him, "there'll be no getting out of this later."

Dean made sure his smile didn't falter as he nodded, hoping there would, indeed, be no getting out of this. Surely, he could expect to still be here come next spring.

Right?

 

*

 

Before spring could come though, there was fall, and winter. Days went by, every one now clearly shorter than the other, colder, wetter. It felt like a slow but inevitable slide down, into dark, barren times, and Dean knew all too well how he was liable to react to that, since he'd struggled so much all summer long, when the sun had been high in the cloudless sky, the streets filled with people talking, strolling, lounging and nature itself rife with life and sound.

He tried to anticipate and counter the deterioration he could feel coming in his already unstable mood however he could. He buried himself in work, the success they'd had chasing down members of that drug network having proven to him that he could indeed still make a difference despite how little time he had left. When he wasn't working, he made sure to at least enjoy the perks of the season. Donna helped—she reveled in such things—but Dean didn't stop dodging her attempts to have him try all that cinnamon or pumpkin drink crap, because that sounded disgusting.

He watched leaves turn and flutter down and tried to see it as a beautiful ballet instead of a sad downfall. He dropped by Lisa's to help her organize her son Ben's five year birthday. He helped out the patrol on Halloween and, on that occasion, ate far too many sweets. Whoever dropped by his apartment was sure to comment on the amount of candy wrappers, but Dean privately thought that it was better than a collection of empty bottles and felt proud that he'd more or less managed to curb that, at least.

Still, it felt like a whole lot of pretending. Whenever he smiled, he felt like a hypocrite—and privately wondered if people really didn't notice how fake it was around the edges, or if they simply thought it wasn't any of their business and chose not to remark on it.

It wasn't like that when he was with his mom, though, which was a relief. He dropped by her house every weekend, sometimes during the week too. Their baking lessons were going well, great even. After Dean had mastered the basics of apple pie à la mom, they'd expanded towards other pastries and desserts. On that occasion, Dean had found out his coffee-making abilities enabled him to prepare one hell of a tiramisu.

Now they'd circled back to pies to go over the pumpkin one, which felt almost mandatory at this time of the year.

As he spooned the pumpkin purée out of its thick skin that Sunday, after it had baked in the oven and cooled, he found himself thinking. Up until now, he and Mary had given away most of what they baked, either to the neighbors, or to the nearest homeless shelter, or more recently to Dean's colleagues at the station. At first he'd announced it came from his mom, then admitted he'd taken part in the preparation, then even, once or twice—as Mary let him take the reigns and only quipped instructions from time to time—that he'd done it himself.

Suddenly the Monday mood at work had become a lot lighter, and people a lot nicer, at least to Dean.

This time though, Dean wasn't thinking about his colleagues, but about Cas; wondering if Cas would like this pie, or any of the pastries Dean could now prepare, if he had any kind of sweet tooth at all or if the faint disapproval Dean could hear in his voice whenever he talked about his cousin Gabriel's ability to put away a whole cake in a matter of minutes mostly stemmed from incomprehension and strong differences in taste. And after all, Dean mused while he stirred the purée to make sure it was smooth all over, when Cas would finally come to Kansas, it'd probably be right after one of his operations. He'd be tired and he'd need—and want—something far more nutritional than pastries. He'd need healthy, balanced meals, with carbs for fuel but also greens for vitamins and fibers and shit, so that he'd recover his strength.

"Say, mom," he said, carried by the thought while he measured out a large cup of sugar.

"Mh?" she replied from where she was supervising—that is to say sitting at the table, reading one of her scientific journals while drinking from a cup of Dean's coffee.

Sometimes Dean felt like her interest in all this went far beyond sheer altruism or even will to share things with her eldest son. She'd had a handyman and now she was getting a cook, after all.

"You think we could try something not sweet next weekend?" Dean asked. He poured the sugar into the bowl, a cascade of crystal.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean like, main course material instead of desserts? Like lasagna. I should totally know how to make lasagna," he rambled, pondering about what Cas might like. "And things with vegetables, like, broccoli." He'd snatched the jar of molasses and paused with his hand on the lid, frowning at the space in front of him. "How do you even cook broccoli? I mean, those things look like miniature trees, how do you make _that_ edible?"

"Dean—"

"No wonder they taste like crap," Dean shrugged, spooning molasses into another cup. "Although that's still better than—"

"Dean, sweetie." Suddenly Mary was standing right beside him and putting a hand on his forearm to make him pause and meet her gaze. He hadn't heard her leave her seat. "You want to learn how to cook… broccoli?"

"Among other things?" Dean said, because it wasn't like he'd started to _like_ those things—although their weird shape could be kind of fascinating, true, and—

"Okay, come here," his mom said. "Put that down and come sit."

Confused, then worried, Dean obeyed. "Yeah, what? What's wrong?" he asked.

"Nothing," she reassured him with a smile, hand still resting on his forearm, soothing and grounding. "Everything's fine, just— Don't get me wrong, I'm… thrilled that you're suddenly showing interest in cooking again and that you seem willing to change some of your eating habits, but—" She squeezed his arm. "Even you will agree that that's not quite like you. So."

Dean watched her, frozen, waiting for the inevitable questions—what's gotten into you, what's happening, you've changed, what's wrong?—questions that he would have to answer. He wouldn't have any other choice. There was no way he could or would lie, not now, not to his mom, and it was going to break her heart, shatter it into pieces so tiny and sharp that nothing and no one would ever be able to glue them back together and he was stupid, incredibly stupid, and useless, he hadn't even been able to pretend for her, to act like he always did, instead of worrying her again, only that worry didn't hold a candle to what she would feel when he told her that—

"Who are you trying to impress?"

Dean's thoughts screeched to a halt. He blinked. Looked up. "What?"

Mary threw him a look. "Don't play dumb," she chided. "I know that you know that I've noticed how much you've been texting lately. And I know that you know that I know it's not with Sam. And I was willing to be patient and leave you space and time for you to work up to it and come to me on your own, but… It's been months, and whoever is on the other line is making you smile and I would just like to know who that is, okay? If only to know who I have to thank."

"Um," was all Dean could say at first, his mind a whirlwind of relief and of guilt—for being relieved, because lying by omission wasn't much better than doing so out loud—of joy at thinking about Cas and of awkwardness that his mom had noticed their exchanges and his reactions to them, of panic because this was another topic on which he couldn't lie, not when asked that directly, and he didn't know how his mom would react, and what if it was bad, what if—

In the end all he could do was look back down at his hands, his fingers nervously playing with the couple of rings he wore, turning them over and over and over.

"Dean?" Mary said tentatively.

"Cas," Dean blurted.

"What?"

His shoulders were hurting, so tense they felt like they were bending under a yoke, heavy and impossible to remove. He squeezed his eyes shut. "His name's Cas."

"His—" Mary paused. He felt understanding course through her and tensed even further. Round and round and round his ring went around his finger. "Oh." The following seconds of silence were almost unbearable. "And, um." She cleared her throat. "How did you two meet?"

Dean let out the breath he hadn't even realized he'd been holding. It came out sharp, explosive, bordering on a sob.

"Oh, Dean," Mary said, another kind of understanding altogether threading through her voice. Still unable to look up, Dean heard her stand up, chair rasping against the tile. In a blink she was at his side, wrapping an arm around his shoulders, her other hand cradling his head to bring it against her. "It's okay, baby," she murmured. "Shh, it's okay."

Dean clung to her, a weight like a block of ice spreading its unbearable cold from the pit of his stomach to all his insides—the exact same as the one that had fallen like a stone on the exact same spot years ago, when he'd realized that the nervous flutter he felt when he sat down beside Aaron Bass in chemistry class was the same as the one that overcame him whenever he kissed Amanda, his girlfriend at the time—before it faded, slowly but surely and, he knew, never to come back. Not in this house. Not with his mom.

He closed his eyes.

"Okay, baby?" Mary asked when she pulled back after a good long while, smiling down at him.

"Yeah," Dean said. He had to clear his throat before it came out.

His mom caressed his cheek and sat back down in the chair right beside his.

"So," she said, her smile taking on a lighter edge. "Cas. Is there any chance I might get to meet him soon?"

"I don't know," Dean replied, rubbing at his eye with the heel of a hand and blinking. "I mean, he lives in California."

Mary's eyebrows jumped up. "California?"

"Yeah." He let out a short laugh. "We met through Sam, how cliché is that?"

"Less cliché than you knocking over his coffee on his way out the shop around the corner of the station," Mary drawled with a shrug.

Dean snorted. "Eh, I would've been doing him a service. Their coffee is crap." Less crap than the poison most people got out of the station coffee machine, but still. Crap.

"So he studies law too?"

"No, medicine," Dean said, smiling at her tone, her slight prying, familiar after years during which she'd tried to find out more about his and Sam's girlfriends. He couldn't quite believe Cas was getting the exact same treatment. "He specializes in healing magic, I think he and Sam know each other from Stanford's union of magic users or something. He's—" He looked down at his hands, feeling an irrepressible smile on his lips. "He's really great, mom," he quietly said.

"I don't doubt that," Mary said. When Dean glanced over at her she reached up to scratch her hand against his scalp. "He really does make you smile," she added. "I hope—" Her smile faltered. "You can talk to him, right?"

"About what?"

She gave him a look, fond and scolding but also a bit sad. "Dean," she said in a matching tone, still scratching behind his ear, which Dean was powerless against. "I'm not an idiot, and I'm not blind. I know that there's something bothering you—beyond the fact that you've entered a relationship with a man and don't know how other people will react. You haven't been sleeping well. You've been drinking more." Her fingers came to brush against his forehead, the faint lines already forming between his eyebrows. "I suspect it has to do with your job, which I know isn't easy and has been kind of crazy lately from what you've told me, but what do I know?"

"Mom—" Dean started, throat tight, wondering what to say to appease her.

"Don't worry, it's okay," she assured him. "You haven't told me and on that I don't want to push. I can imagine why you might not want to tell me. Although you completely dropped the ball on not worrying me, but that's par for the course, since I'm your mother," she pointed out, faintly teasing. "I'm just glad that you've given up on avoiding me. And I hope you can talk to him about it."

"I can," Dean said at once, intent on giving her that, at least. "I do. He's been great. I mean, he's been here, for me. All the way from California but— Yeah."

"Good," she said, smile widening again. "I'll look forward to meeting him, then."

She patted his cheek and, as she stood up announcing that that pie wasn't going to bake itself, Dean almost wondered why he'd been so afraid.

 

*

 

"So," he told Cas a couple of days later. "I told my mom."

His phone was tucked between his cheek and shoulder. He was cooking breakfast, at a normal, acceptable-for-breakfast hour for once. Wonders never ceased.

"About?" Cas asked. He was doing the same, although the resulting food was to work as his dinner before he collapsed into bed, as he'd just come back from his night shift.

Dean could hear his exhaustion, but he also knew that, hadn't they been talking, Cas would have foregone his meal and fallen asleep already. Yet he needed food about as much, if not more. Dean knew: he'd been reading up on magic and its uses and perusing KU's med program forum. So he didn't feel that guilty about keeping him awake.

"About you. And us."

There was nothing but the faint sizzle of bacon in a pan for the longest time.

"Oh," Cas let out, before he started pouring something—cereals or muesli—into a bowl.

"She asked," Dean hurried to explain. "She noticed all the texting and…" He shrugged. "Anyway. I hope that's okay?" he asked, because with Cas' reaction he suddenly wasn't so sure. "She's cool with it."

"No. I mean, yes, that's," Cas stuttered a bit. "That's good."

Dean let out a relieved breath. "She wants to meet you," he said, more cautiously, while he forked his bacon onto a plate but let the pan on the stove to fry his eggs in the leftover grease.

"She does?"

"Yup," he confirmed, feeling anxious, wondering if the suggestion was too soon, too fast.

His worries dissolved when he heard a smile pierce through Cas' voice over the sound of a fridge door opening and closing: "I'll look forward to that."

"Awesome," Dean said, cracking his last egg. "Still no word about your next operation?"

Cas had started moving cutlery around, probably settling down at his tiny kitchen table. "No. For now I have to make it through several more tests and interviews, with doctors and a psychologist, to make sure there weren't any aftereffects. You have to understand, an operation going that awry that fast is quite rare. Usually the healers have more time to retreat and protect themselves."

"But you're okay?" Dean fretted as he stirred. "I mean, they haven't found anything—?"

"For now, all tests have given the expected results. But I won't be back on the operating schedule until they're sure I'm all in the clear. It's procedure, we have that kind of tests all the time, this time there's just a bit more of them, so it'll take a bit longer than usual."

He was obviously trying to prevent Dean from worrying. Which had the opposite effect, but Dean tried not to show it. "How much longer?" he asked, taking his eggs out of the fire. "How long does it usually take?"

Cas finished drinking something—orange juice, Dean hoped—before he replied, "For heavy operations, doctors can be assigned a case every other month at most—every three months is the average, and it's the mandatory period for students." He paused. "Think of it as giving blood. Whenever you do that, you have to wait two to three months, until your red cells levels are back to normal. It's the same with magic when used at this scale. You give a lot of energy, after all. And that's when there's no further complications. When that's the case it all depends on sequels so," he hesitated. "I can't say for sure."

Dean put his pan in the sink and filled it with water to soak. "So in the meantime all you can do to be your good samaritan and help the community is give blood?"

"Actually, I'm not allowed," Cas said, now with his mouth full.

Dean paused in the middle of taking his slices out of the toaster. "Seriously?"

"Yes." Was it Dean or was he licking his fingers? "An important part of the energy flow goes through the blood, not only the nervous system. An abrupt drop in the quantity of blood present in an organism using magic would highly disturb that flow. Same goes for any change in its composition, which is why I can't drink copious amounts of alcohol."

"And here I thought you were just that reasonable," Dean said, pouring coffee into his favorite mug.

"As you might have heard, it's rarely the case among my peers."

"True," Dean chuckled, bringing his mug and his plate full of toast to the table where he sat. He set his phone on loudspeaker and put it down beside him. "So you're stuck on the sidelines until further notice?"

"Of course not," Cas replied, munching on what was definitely burnt toast, from the sound of it—nothing like the perfectly golden slices Dean was now buttering. "There are still many uses for magic in a medical setting for which I might be called on. But when it comes to large scale interventions warranting some ensuing leave… Yes, essentially."

"Uh." Dean was a bit disappointed. He'd really been hoping on that kind of leave to see Cas before the end of the year. "Well, if it means you're guaranteed to be all right, then we can't complain," he said. After a silence only interrupted by the faint clink of his spoon against the edge of his jar of jam, he ventured to add: "So if there's no operation coming up in a while, how do we—" He finished spreading marmalade on his toast and put down his spoon to take a sip of coffee. "I mean, you could come up for a weekend or something, maybe?"

It was a while before Cas' answer came and, when it did, it sounded guilty. "It would only allow for a very short visit," he said. Dean could hear him move his cereals around in his bowl. "And aside from my unpredictable shift schedule I still have to study, and you have your work, and—"

"Yeah, no, okay, I get it," Dean hurried to say, even though part of him didn't—because yes, a weekend visit would be short, but so what? They'd still get to see each other and that was better than nothing. That was what mattered, right? Except it felt like it was what mattered to _him_ , but to Cas…

Not for the first time he found himself thinking that Cassie had been right, that maybe he was the one in the wrong here, expecting too much. Because really, what would Cas gain from spending a weekend in Kansas, of all places? Tiredness, stress, probably a headache to boot—and Dean's presence clearly wasn't enough to make it worth it. If it had been, against all expectations, if Cas had wanted to see him above all, he would've jumped at the suggestion. Sure, it wouldn't be easy to coordinate Cas' shifts with his working hours, which were always liable to draw themselves out, and they'd have to take the flight into account as well as the state they might be in at the end of the week and—

Dean sighed, realizing Cas' reservations were entirely founded. He rubbed his forehead, trying to dispel his—hopefully unfounded—doubts, and took a bite of scrambled eggs and bacon. "What about—" he mused as he chewed, trying not to sound too hesitant. "You get winter break right?"

"One week, yes," Cas said through a yawn.

"I guess you'll go see your family, but why don't you drop by then?" Dean suggested after he'd swallowed. "I mean, Illinois is not that far from Kansas. A lot closer than California, at least."

"Yes," Cas said. His voice strengthened, grew more lively as he added, "We could do that, yes. I mean, I would have to be home for Christmas mass and on Christmas day, but after that—"

"Yeah?" Dean perked up.

"Yes." He started chewing on cereals that sounded far too dry to be healthy, or to be eaten without milk.

"Will that go over okay with your family?" Dean asked, knowing that Mary would be pissed if Sam ever bailed right after Christmas, given how little she got to see him as a whole. He attacked his first toast.

"Oh, yes, don't worry," Cas said in between two mouthfuls. "Even though most of my cousins do actually come back for Christmas dinner, a lot of them run away right afterwards. At worst they might wonder why I'm suddenly doing the same."

That gave Dean pause. "Cas," he asked slowly. "Do they know about—" He stopped.

"About what?"

"That you're… You know." God, this was awkward. He put his half-eaten toast down.

"Oh," Cas said, understanding his meaning. "Gay?"

"With me," Dean preferred to say.

"Well," Cas said, like this was a delicate matter. "The family members who bothered to ask about how I'm doing beyond my academic achievements since last summer, yes. They do."

"Meaning?"

"Hannah, of course. Rachel, Inias." The names rang a bell, but Dean still struggled to remember what he knew about those two. He took a sip of coffee instead. "Anna and Balthazar," Cas went on, since he didn't have any problem placing his billion cousins. "Although the connection was quite bad since they were calling from overseas, and I'm pretty sure they were either drunk or high or both, so who knows if they remember." He paused. "Uncle Marv, surprisingly."

Dean winced. He definitely remembered that one. "He a dick about it?" he growled, still cradling his mug between his hands.

"He wasn't, actually," Cas said. "It didn't make the experience any more enjoyable. But I have to admit that I was quite disappointed when he didn't choke on his pretzel when I came out with it."

Dean snorted. "You sure did."

"Did what?" Cas asked.

"Come out," Dean grinned, picking his toast back up.

There was a pause on the other end of the line. "Your maturity will never cease to astound me," Cas said. He took another mouthful of cereal.

"Aw, but that's why you love me," Dean cajoled and bit into his toast.

Cas swallowed. "Yes," he said, quiet and fond and entirely unselfconscious—and suddenly this stopped being funny and became something else entirely. "I do."

Dean almost choked on his mouthful.

 

*

 

Thanksgivings rolled around and with it came Sam, which was always cause for much celebrations in the Winchester household. This time they were especially vivid, as there were also two good news to be glad about. One, Sam had gotten his interview and it had gone so well he knew he had a shot at getting a scholarship, provided his application—which he'd turned in right before leaving—went through. Two, at some point between the start of classes and the present time, he and Jess had become an item.

"How the hell did _that_ happen?" Dean gleefully asked.

By then Sam had the beet red look of someone wishing with all their might that they'd kept their mouth shut. He shrugged and pushed his food around on his plate, his fork dwarfed by the sheer size of his hand. Dean swore the guy kept growing larger.

"I don't know," he said. It was obvious he had something to hide. "I guess with my internship going so well, and how great the year's started, I've felt more confident and—" He looked up and, met with Dean and Mary's twin looks of skepticism, trailed off. "Or," he amended, staring back down at his food. "She asked me out. The meatloaf is very good, mom," he hastily added, almost desperate for a diversion. Dean started to laugh and laugh and laugh. "Did you do something different or…?"

Mary allowed for the change of conversation. "You'll have to ask your brother," she said, eyes sparkling. "He's the one who cooked dinner."

Dean stopped laughing right there and then to throw his mom a betrayed look. He'd made sure everything was almost done by the time Sam arrived, just so that he wouldn't _know_.

"You made this?" Sam asked, pointing down at his plate.

He sounded entirely incredulous. Dean crossed his arms, defensive and vexed. "Yeah, so what? Not everyone is useless with a stove, you know."

He shifted in his seat. Sam kept staring and it was… awkward.

"Uh," Sam said. He seemed completely at a loss for words.

"Wait until you try the pie," Mary butted in, because she was a traitor. "It's better than mine, I daresay."

Suffice to say, Dean made his escape as soon as he could, snatching his phone and coat to retreat to the porch. Cas sounded extremely grateful for the excuse to do the exact same when he picked up. He'd gone home to his family too—and after a lot of thinking he and Dean had decided he wouldn't try to leave early and drop by Kansas, just so he would have more chances to take off right after Christmas with little resistance or drama.

"Hey, everything okay?" Dean asked, faintly worried but suspecting he needn't be. He was starting to understand that his boyfriend's harried tone was par for the course whenever he was in any kind of prolonged contact with his family.

"Yes, just, you know, the usual."

"Meaning?"

Cas took a deep, calming breath. "Well, my aunt and mother managed to corral Gabriel into coming, with his wife—who's quite the character, really. Her name's Kali."

"Finally, a name!" Dean laughed softly.

"Indeed," Cas said. "She doesn't give him the time of day, much to his delight—and to my utter confusion, because she did marry him, so…" He huffed. "But what do I know?"

"Your mom and aunt must be happy to finally meet her,"

"They are, in a way," Cas agreed. "Or rather, they were. Because then, for no apparent reason—although I suspect some childish, misplaced sense of rivalry over Gabriel's untimely wedding—both Michael _and_ Luke showed up with an allegedly long-time girlfriend on their arms, whom no one had heard of before. And whose presence they hadn't announced. So now we have two more people to seat at the table _and_ to feed, which my aunt hadn't taken into account in all her preparations. You can guess the state she's currently in, I'm sure."

"Uh, yeah," Dean said, feeling bad for the poor woman, who definitely deserved a break after having raised her four crazy children but couldn't seem to get one, all because of said crazy children, who kept getting crazier with age instead of wising up. "Will she be okay?"

"My mom and Hannah are trying to help her come up with some last minute additional side dish, because she'd convinced the twenty pound turkey won't be enough," Cas said, before he paused. "Which makes me realize that there's currently no one but my uncle and Joe to try and make polite, sane conversation with our two unexpected guests right now, which is far from being their forte."

"Oh man," Dean gasped, torn between hilarity and horror. He remembered several anecdotes about Cas' uncle Chuck, who had spent the last thirty-five years entirely out of his depth and had given up by now on ever regaining his footing, while Joe, Hannah's self-effacing husband, was still adapting. Or trying to.

"I don't think these two girls had any idea of what they were stepping into," Cas went on. "Michael and Luke certainly wouldn't have warned them." He hesitated. "I… probably should go back inside to try and offer some support."

He sounded reluctant and awfully guilty at already putting an end to their conversation.

"Yeah, no, don't worry, I get it," Dean was swift to reassure him. " _Completely_. Go rescue the damsels in distress."

"I'm sorry—"

"Don't be," Dean said. "Knight in shining armor is a good look on you," he added, heavy with innuendo.

By some miracle, Cas caught it this time. "Yeah?" he laughed.

"Yeah," Dean stressed. "Now go. We'll talk later."

Cas hesitated for a couple more second, then gave in. "Okay. Talk to you later." He hung up.

Dean remained on the porch for a little while longer, smiling down at his phone and shaking his head with a somewhat incredulous laugh. Just when he thought his boyfriend's family couldn't get any weirder. But Cas' voice had sounded lighter by the end of their conversation, short as it had been, so Dean felt like he'd done his job.

He was still smiling when he stepped back inside, cheeks flushed, which became obvious with the way Sam and Mary rose their eyebrows at him.

"Okay," he said loudly, stubbornly ignoring their prying eyes—although he now realized that whatever they might dish out would be nothing but the most innocuous teasing compared to the circus Cas was currently wading into. "What about that pie?"

He took it out of the oven, cut it into slices, served it and yeah, it was damn good. Sam had the gall to still look surprised, so Dean rescinded his right to privacy and made him tell them all about his life at Stanford since the beginning of the year.

There wasn't much, outside of studying. Some outings he'd made, some movies he'd seen, some exhibitions he'd visited, sometimes with several friends, sometimes only with Jess.

"Only with _Jess_ ," Dean not-so-discreetly whispered, exchanging a significant look with Mary.

" _Only_ with Jess," she repeated, raising her eyebrows.

"Guys, come on," Sam whined. Mary took pity on him and sobered up but Dean openly sniggered.

Cas' name popped up from time to time, especially when Sam went into his progress in magic and his activities within Stanford's association of magic users—among which Dean's boyfriend was kind of a reference, as his control on magic was exceptional. Knowing what he did with it on a daily basis, Dean wasn't surprised. And okay, he might've preened a little. And miss him that little bit more. So what?

So Sam glanced over at him and caught the look of longing, of faint envy too, probably, that Dean wasn't quick enough to conceal.

"Oh man, now I feel guilty," he said, burying his head in his arms.

"Why?"

"'Cause I get to see him so often while you—" He was merciful enough not to finish that sentence.

"Nah, it's okay," Dean assured him, proud of the fact that it was mostly genuine. "It's nice to know he's got friends around and has a life beside the hospital and the library."

And yeah, he would've liked for that life to include more of him, beyond texts and phone calls. But it's wasn't, and that was that.

Whenever he stopped to think about it—which he rarely let himself do—he realized that it was weird that his brother got to spend more time with Cas than he did. When that happened he wondered, again, what they were doing. They'd definitely been hasty in starting something when Dean had last come to Palo Alto; pressed for time as they'd been, as they still were, they hadn't thought it through. Maybe because, if they had, they would have realized that it made little to no sense. Living so far apart, they couldn't see each other, sometimes went entire days without getting a direct hold of each other—and that wasn't going to change. Dean had his job, Cas had his studies and they hadn't even talked about what his plans were for his residency, Dean had realized. He had no idea if Cas would stay in California, go back to Illinois or had another state in sight. Besides, it remained possible that Dean himself would be taken out of the equation before it even started to matter.

So yes, what were they doing? What were they gaining from it?

For Dean the answer was obvious: without Cas, he wouldn't have made it through these past few months. Or, if he had, he would be in one hell of a sorry state. It was thanks to Cas that he hadn't drowned at the bottom of a bottle, that he'd decided that he'd try to make the most of the time he'd left—if only because letting himself fall for him had been his first step in the direction of something he'd wanted but would've denied himself otherwise; it was thanks to Cas that he could still smile and have it be genuine.

But what about Cas? In Dean's darkest moments, that answer was obvious too: he got nothing. Nothing but headaches from trying to drag Dean back from the edge, to make sure he didn't drink too much, to put a curb on his pity parties. All he did was try to take care of Dean, when he already had all his patients to worry about, and his studies, and his family on top of that, and what was Dean in that scenario, if not another leech?

In these moments Dean almost believed that the best thing to do would be to end whatever this was there and now, before it became something more, so that when he bit it at least Cas would be spared. But then he would have Cas on the phone, half the time because _Cas_ had called, and he always sounded so glad to hear Dean's voice, to learn about his day. He always smiled from beginning to end, unless a difficult topic came up, like the loss of a patient or yet another crisis in his family—and then Dean would try his best to make it come back. He tried to be attentive, and supportive, and it worked, most of the time, that was the thing. By the time they hung up Cas would be smiling again, albeit tiredly, but Dean would still hear it in his voice. He'd feel happy and useful, and realize that most of his negative thoughts about how unbalanced their relationship was, about how he took everything but gave nothing in return were nothing but shadows in his head.

He'd asked Sam, once, if Cas talked to him about his job and his family.

"Not really, no," Sam had said. He'd misinterpreted the reason why Dean had been asking though, as he'd hastily added, "It's not like him to talk much about himself, you know? Even when prompted—or especially then, he'll clam right up. He doesn't like people prying. So if he doesn't answer when you ask, don't worry, okay? It's got nothing to do with you. That's just how he is, with everyone."

Except by then Dean had already known more or less everything there was to know about how Gabriel, Anna and Balthazar had all run away as soon as they'd hit sixteen, and all turned back up a few years down the road like as many prodigal sons and daughter; how Michael and Luke had started their legendary fights over dinner at puberty and never really stopped, event though they now lived at opposite sides of the country and only talked during holidays; how Samandriel, one of Cas' cousins thrice removed, wanted to become a doctor like Cas, but his mother Naomi refused to even let him try; how more or less everyone despised dear old uncle Marv, but couldn't show it because he was stinking rich and had no children, which made them hope they'd end up on his will if they were nice enough—and how Castiel, who didn't care about money and didn't make a secret of his dislike, seemed to have become Marv's favorite for that very reason, much to his dismay; and so on.

And that was without mentioning the times when things were hard at the hospital, and Cas was not okay, and Dean was apparently the only one with whom he managed to talk about it, for some reason.

So yeah, Cas did get something out of it, even if the price to pay was Dean's bullshit and his shitty jokes. And he wanted to see Dean about as much as Dean wanted to see him, even if he didn't often let on about it. That much became obvious later that night. Dinner was over, the dishes washed, the leftovers stocked in the fridge and Dean camping on his mother's couch because he wasn't ready to go back to his flat and feel the elation of the night leave him as he realized it might've been his last Thanksgivings. As long as he didn't leave, he could pretend the holiday wasn't over, not quite.

"So now I've bought my plane tickets for Christmas," Cas announced to conclude his retelling of how the rest of the evening had gone since they'd last spoken. He sounded so vindictive, like it was the natural consequence to what he'd previously described, the obvious rebellion meant to avenge him for what had happened, that Dean started to laugh.

Until he realized Cas wasn't laughing.

"What, seriously?" he asked.

"Yes."

"For here?"

"Yes," Cas repeated.

"When do you land?" Dean asked, feeling the remainder of his amusement fade to be replaced by excitement.

"On the 26th, in the morning. I'll leave again directly for California on the 2nd of January." He was definitely smiling.

Dean did a quick count in his head and blinked. "That's almost a whole week," he said.

"Yes."

"You'll be here for a whole _week_?"

" _Yes_." Cas seemed to have suddenly grown very fond of that word.

"That's—" Dean trailed off, at a loss for words. Even 'awesome' didn't cover how awesome that was.

"I know," Cas said, sounding very proud of himself.

An unwelcome thought brought Dean back down to earth. "In a month, though."

"One very short, very measly month," Cas countered, refusing to lose any of his enthusiasm.

For some reason, it made a knot appear in Dean's throat. "I—" Cas deserved to hear it, damn it, so he forced himself to say, "I can't wait."

"Me neither," Cas said, quiet and happy.

 

*

 

The month in question passed, excruciatingly slow, with its highs and lows—and definitely more lows than highs.

At the hospital where Cas worked the month was rife with accidents, patients coming in with severe wounds and trauma after a car crash or other. Cas was called on for emergency operations, to try and maintain their energy levels in some state of balance, to help along the cells in their healing, to boost their organism so it would hold on long enough for the doctors to operate. It failed, most of the time: the body was often too damaged to keep functioning, the blood loss too great and sudden. Cas tried to cling to the thought of the people he could save, even though both he and Dean knew it was of little comfort in face of the ones he couldn't.

Dean knew, because between Thanksgivings and Christmas two more people were found who had fallen victim to the drug they were hunting down, as proven by blood analysis. The team wasn't any closer to solving that case. They might've found a trail leading towards the larger cities, but they still didn't know who had first introduced the drug in Lawrence and was still spreading it, who had given Ruby her orders. The young woman hadn't had time to reveal anything, but her still uncleared death hinted that she'd gotten her method of production and distribution from someone else, someone who hadn't wanted her to talk. Yet they had no idea who or where that might be: were they a local chief dealer with ambitions of grandeur, mixing drugs they got from the ring the FBI was currently investigating with magic to make more money? Were they higher-ups in that interstate network, who'd chosen Kansas as the one where they'd test out a new product?

So they were muddling through, slowly, painstakingly, more or less fruitlessly. Dean clung to what progress they managed to make, however small, to Sunday afternoons spent at his mom's, to his phone calls with Cas. He counted the days to their reunion—thirty, twenty-nine, twenty-eight—until he realized what he was doing and made himself stop.

When he next looked at a calendar it was down to two weeks, then one and Sam, now on winter break, flew back home. That was when Dean briefly, darkly thought that maybe this would be the week things went awry and he croaked. Wouldn't that be ironic?

He didn't share that thought with Cas. Rightly so, because when Christmas came around Dean was still walking and talking. He and Sam and Mary exchanged gifts on the 24th and bore the experience of Christmas lunch with most of the Campbell family on Saturday, the 25th. They managed to leave early enough to avoid being asked to stay for dinner too and then—

And then the 26th dawned.

Dean left early for the airport, so that despite his jitters he wouldn't drive too fast, wouldn't take too many risks, wouldn't fear being late. He got there with nearly a whole hour to spare.

He got lost, _twice_ —because that was how it was between Dean and airports. By the time he was sure he'd found the terminal exit at which Cas would arrive, there was only a little over half an hour left, and he was determined to not move an inch.

There weren't any seats nearby. Dean swung back and forth on his feet and stared at the screen giving updates on arrivals. He found Cas' flight, saw it go from 'on time' to 'landing' to 'landed', each step making his anxiousness and impatience grow.

A few people trickled through the gate—the lucky or smart few who hadn't checked in any bags. As Cas had to have packed enough for the entirety of the holidays, Dean didn't expect him to be among them. Instead he glared at the wall around which the first travelers had turned, mentally willing the carousel to start spitting out the luggage already.

He blinked when he heard his name called in a very familiar voice, and let out an explosive breath when he caught sight of Cas. The man split from the group Dean had dismissed, a wide smile on his lips and a small blue carry-on bumbling behind him. Dean barely had the time to take two steps and open his arms before Cas reached him, let go of the suitcase handle and threw himself at him. The piece of luggage faltered, teetered, swung back—then upright, and stopped, proudly standing. Dean barked out a laugh and returned Cas' hug, patting him on the back as Cas tightened his hold, murmuring his name in the crook of his neck and shoulder.

"Well, hello there," Dean said.

"Yes," Cas said, squeezing him one last time before pulling away. "Hello." He was still smiling, wide eyes zeroing in on Dean's face with such eagerness Dean was sure, for a second, that Cas was going to kiss him.

He was suddenly painstakingly aware of the fact that they were standing in the middle of a very crowded, very public airport. He cleared his throat, evaded Cas' gaze, thus awkwardly breaking the moment.

"Come on," he said, leaning to the side to grab Cas' suitcase and start pulling it behind him. "Put on your coat, I'm parked what feels like miles away. Was the trip okay?"

"Yes," Cas replied, falling into step beside him. "Although reaching O'Hare was a trial, as always."

The suitcase Dean was dragging forced a small distance between them, but maybe that was for the best. That way he didn't feel tempted to catch and hold Cas' hand. Or, if he was, he couldn't.

"That's what you get for living in Chicago."

"Joliet," Cas corrected stiffly.

"Yeah, whatever," Dean snorted, seeing little difference between the two. "Who drove you, Hannah?"

"Yes. She gives you her regards, although I feel I have to let you know they might be slightly resentful and envious. Usually I stay longer than that on Christmas instead of leaving her alone to deal with…" He sighed. "Well, everything."

"That bad, uh?"

Cas sent him a look. "Do you really need to ask?"

Dean tilted his head, conceding the point.

It wasn't long before they reached the Impala—the way felt much shorter when Dean didn't get lost and had Cas at his side. On the ride back to Lawrence, Cas gave him the highlights of his brief sojourn in Illinois until they reached the town limits, upon which he grew silent, avidly watching through the window as if he wanted to catch every single detail at once, as if he was seeing something special instead of a town like any other.

Dean, suspecting what exactly was giving his hometown that peculiar shine in Cas' eyes, pointed out some landmarks, a restaurant he liked, a building belonging to Kansas University…

"Is that where you studied?" Cas asked.

"No," Dean replied, taking a left at the following crossing. "They don't have any program in criminology or criminal law, I had to go to UMKC."

Ten more minutes and they reached the squat apartment complex where Dean lived. Upon seeing it he felt awkward, without really knowing why. Maybe—probably—Cas' presence made him look at it, at what it meant, with different eyes.

It should've been temporary, him renting a one-bedroom apartment here. It was supposed to be a place for him to stay while he was at the Academy after his degree, while he settled into his job at the station. After that, the plan had been to start looking for a house to invest in. But he'd underestimated how busy being an officer would make him, and how easy it would be to use that as an excuse to push back the moment when he'd seriously start his search.

It had been nearly three years, he now realized. When he'd left home to go visit Sam for his twenty-first birthday, he hadn't really thought about house hunting in months and now…

Now, he'd simply given up on it all. It wasn't even something he'd had to reflect on. Hell, his laziness would probably end up being a good thing, in the end; he wouldn't leave his family with a mortgage they'd have to—

"Dean?"

He snapped out of his thoughts. In the passenger seat, Cas was looking at him with a mixture of confusion and concern.

"Uh, sorry," Dean said, forcing out a chuckle. "I was just trying to remember if I'd left anything incriminating lying around."

Without waiting for an answer he cut the engine and went to fetch Cas' suitcase from the trunk. They hurried to the building. The cold snap that had made the temperature drop dramatically on Christmas Eve was still going strong, and they were only too happy to shut the entrance door behind them and climb the stairs to the second floor.

Dean's apartment felt small, almost cramped even though he'd tidied it up the best he could. Cas didn't seem to notice, or mind. He kept looking around with a smile as he took off and hung his flimsy trench coat, then asked for a tour.

There wasn't much to see: the living-room beyond the small entrance corner, with an open kitchen on the right and a closet door which Dean rarely dared open due to the perilous heights that the piles of junk stored behind it had reached. On the left, near the bay window opening onto a tiny balcony, stood another door, leading to the bedroom and its ensuite bathroom.

"It's not much, I know," Dean said as Cas snooped in the latter, even though the contents of Dean's shower shelf couldn't be that fascinating.

"It's nice," Cas countered when he came back out, still smiling, and stepped right in front of Dean, right into his space. He stared into Dean's eyes for a second, two, and all thoughts and feelings of inadequacy faded from Dean's mind, leaving only agreement: yes, it was nice, that Dean had this small but cosy flat, where he currently was, where Cas was too, now. At last. It was very nice.

One of Cas' hands came to rest on Dean's belly. Dean swallowed. He breathed out slowly as that hand slowly slid up, caressed his stomach, brushed against a nipple before it closed around the half-open collar of his henley and tugged slightly. He went, eyes sliding shut right before his lips met Cas' and they finally, finally kissed.

It started soft and slow, a greeting, a welcome back after so long, a 'how have you been since last time?'—and the answer came with the kiss not stopping, with their lips parting, mutely speaking of longing, of frustration, of unfulfilled desire. It all grew more heated, then. Dean took a step closer, his hands came to rest on Cas' hip, his side, while Cas' hand slithered up his throat, along his jaw, behind his head to scratch at his scalp, looking in vain for purchase in Dean's short cropped hair. Cas let out an irritated growl, which faded into a short whine when Dean curled his tongue around his in that way he remembered Cas liked, in that way that made Cas melt and grab his shoulder for support. He let Dean walk him backwards, one step, two steps—

"Dean," he murmured when the back of his knees hit the bed. Dean pulled slightly back, smiling, and, with a soft push, made Cas sit on the edge of the mattress. He wasn't sure what did it—the sight of Cas in such a familiar setting, the easiness with which he'd followed Dean's wordless demand, the look in his darkened eyes as he looked up at him—but suddenly Dean remembered all the things he'd imagined and hoped for, thinking about Cas with him in this room. One of them especially stood at the forefront. He stepped between Cas' knees, which had parted as soon as he'd sat, and bent down to kiss him again, one hand cupping his jaw, the other threading through his hair. A thrill ran down his spine when in return Cas clasped his ass, the back of his thigh, his grip tightening as Dean trailed kisses along his jaw, right up to his ear where he whispered, "I really, really want to suck you." He paused, but couldn't help but add in a rumbly, "Doctor."

He met Cas' eyes to gauge his reaction, ask his permission. He found them wide, slightly incredulous and very much hungry.

It wasn't something they'd done before. Dean hadn't felt comfortable with it without quite understanding why, especially since nothing else he and Cas had done—he'd found out he very much enjoyed Cas' cock, especially when it was inside him—had awoken the same reluctance. Maybe that was why, after he and Cas had parted—while he hadn't regretted not at least trying it—he had… _wondered_. Over the months, the thought had stayed with him and it had stopped feeling so daunting; it had become something he toyed with, tested out in his mind until his discomfort was overcome by curiosity, then by more than curiosity and now… Now the wondering had quite clearly turned into wanting.

Somehow Cas perceived it, or he simply trusted Dean to know what he wanted, or Dean's eagerness was plain on his face, no matter how strong the trepidation accompanying it was. He didn't ask if Dean was sure. He nodded.

When Dean went down on his knees, he did so grinning.

 

*

 

Dean had had tentative plans for the day. Nothing much: a short outing to show Cas around town, maybe have him try one of his favorite diners, or show him Clinton Lake and its frozen edges—but they all rapidly fell through. Cas very clearly fell in love with Dean's room, Dean's bed, especially when Dean was in it, and once he'd settled there, it was hours before he conceded to leave it again. There was a lot of lying around, and talking, and napping, and other more strenuous activities, and Dean felt like he'd never enjoyed a Sunday more, or in a more decadent way.

When evening came, they managed to drag themselves back to the living-room, where Cas planted himself on the couch while Dean set about to preparing some real food for dinner, as opposed to whatever snacks he'd snatched in haste towards 2 p.m. It wasn't anything fancy: baked potatoes with two steaks and a side dish of some damn broccoli, not because Dean had started liking it, but because he was kind of proud to finally know how to prepare them and because, operation or not, Cas needed his greens.

"I didn't know you could cook," Cas said as they sat down to eat, staring delightedly at the plate in front of him.

Dean looked down. From what he'd seen and eaten at his grandmother's table at Christmas, this here barely counted as 'cooking'. "It's nothing," he mumbled.

"It's amazing," Cas insisted, already one quarter into his portion. "I'd ask you to remind me to thank you for this later, but somehow I don't think I'll need it."

Once they had cleared their plates Cas shooed Dean away to the couch with a beer while he did the dishes and put them away. He didn't ask where anything was, simply looked through the cupboards until he found the placement he was looking for. Dean smiled. He liked Cas snooping around his kitchen, liked Cas feeling comfortable enough to really make himself at home. If he sank a little bit deeper into the couch, took a sip of his beer and let the faint clanking of the plates fall into the background, he could almost imagine that this was something normal, a regular evening for them. It was a nice thought, in which he lost himself for a bit as he watched the television screen without really following what was going on there.

The TV had come on on some new hospital show about a 'Dr. Sexy MD' who had made out with… yes, two different people in the space of ten minutes screen time. Clearly he had far too much success among his patients and colleagues, be they doctors or nurses. _Eh_ , Dean thought stealing a look towards Cas, _I've seen better. Hell, I've_ had _better_.

As if to prove him right, his boyfriend unceremoniously came to straddle his lap as soon as he was done with the dishes, hiding the view of Dr. Sexy making out with a Dr. Piccolo in an elevator.

"So," Cas said, face all serious but eyes glowing as he pushed Dean against the backrest. "Where were we?"

Dean smirked. "You tell me."

Cas raised imperious eyebrows at Dean's cheek, which sent a happy thrill down Dean's spine. And he proceeded not to tell him, but to _show_ him.

Dean was pretty sure he ended up with some fried braincells. He found himself lying on his side in his bed afterwards, stunned, trying to regain his breathing, his footing, to gather his scattered thoughts. His whole body was tingling, all of his cells buzzing with the after-echoes of his orgasm. It had come like a tidal wave, huge and irrepressible, and so powerful that it had felt like the result of something more than just him and Cas, more than Cas' hands on his skin and lips on his nape and cock dragging so deep inside him. As if Cas had been so intent, so focused on giving him pleasure and on doing it right, that he'd tapped right into his magic—unconsciously, like in that article Dean's mom had talked about.

 _Something 'magic' definitely happened_ , Dean thought with a sluggish grin. He felt high. He chuckled and hid his face in his pillow. Cas, who had tucked himself right against his back, tightened his hold on him in reaction. His nose buried into the crook of Dean's neck, one of his arms wrapped around Dean's torso with a hand resting on Dean's heart, his spent cock sitting snug against Dean's ass and his legs tangled with Dean's, he was resting. It all felt exceedingly nice, and with his eyes closed, Dean thought that he wouldn't mind if they stayed that way for a while, a long long while, forever maybe. Yeah, that would be good, that'd be great, except for the fact that—

His happy bubble popped. He let out a plaintive groan.

"What is it?" Cas asked at once, dropping a soothing kiss on his shoulder.

"I forgot I have work in the morning," Dean said.

"I'll take that as a compliment." Cas sounded entirely unconcerned, brushing his lips against Dean's skin in a pattern that seemed entirely random and yet felt full of intent.

"Yeah, go on bragging," Dean grumbled. He sighed, feeling the sobering effect of his thoughts course through him and bring him all back down. "I'm sorry I can't stay," he said, fitting his hand on Cas' on his front. "Will you be okay on your own?"

"Yes, of course," Cas replied, slowing down but not stopping his kissing. "I still have an unbelievable amount of reading to do, and if I feel at a loss I can always call Sam to hang out in town."

Dean let out a small sound of protest and turned onto his back. Cas pulled back to let him and curled back against his side right after, throwing a leg between his. "I wanted to be the one to show you around town," Dean complained.

"Somehow I doubt you and your brother will want to show me the same places," Cas pointed out, dropping another kiss, this time on Dean's pouting lips. "Also, I would like to go to the hospital."

Dean blinked. "Why?" He frowned in suspicion. "Not for homework, I hope?"

"No, it's simply out of curiosity," Cas said. "It's always interesting to see how other medical centers work. With a little bit of luck I might even get to shadow one of the doctors for a day or two."

Dean shook his head with a reproachful look. "All work and no play makes Cassie a dull boy."

"I think there's been enough 'playing' for the night," Cas retorted, fingers brushing against the couple hickeys on the downside of Dean's clavicle.

Dean shifted to settle more comfortably into his mattress. His chuckle turned into the faintest of hisses when he felt a painful twinge. "My ass agrees," he mumbled.

Cas smiled through a blush and hid it by dropping another kiss on Dean's lips. He reached over him to turn off the bedside lamp and laid back down against Dean, ready to go to sleep.

Yep, Dean thought, closing his eyes. This was just perfect.

 

*

 

It was less perfect the next morning, when his alarm rang far too early. Dean snorted awake and found himself lying on his front, with Cas sprawled half over his back, keeping him in an octopus-like hold.

"No," Cas said, tightening his left arm and leg around Dean's waist and hip as soon as Dean shifted.

"Cas, I have to go to work," Dean reminded him.

"No."

Dean rumbled a sleepy laugh into his pillow. "Come on," he said and slowly, carefully managed to extract himself, hissing at the icy feel of the room after the cocoon of warmth of his bed. He hurriedly snatched and put on his brand new bathrobe, before pulling the bedcovers back up to Cas' nose so he wouldn't get cold. The man had transferred his hold to Dean's pillow and buried his deep, grumpy frown there. He didn't move an inch.

Dean took a shower, and put on his uniform—he wouldn't have the time to change at the station, as he needed to head right back out for a meeting he really wasn't looking forward to. He put coffee to brew while he cooked breakfast.

He had finished eating and was writing a note to Cas when the man in question emerged from the bedroom, clothed in nothing but a t-shirt and a pair of boxers that definitely weren't his. His hair was a mess and he was squinting so hard it was a miracle he could see enough to navigate. As it was, he briefly paused at the door, enveloping Dean and his uniform in a narrow-eyed look, then made a beeline for him to grab him by the collar in a gesture that was becoming very familiar. Dean obediently leaned forward at the slightest of tugs and received a kiss as a reward.

"Have a good day," Cas said, voice even lower than usual. He smoothed the front of Dean's shirt with the flat on his hand and met Dean's eye. "Officer."

After which he turned around and headed right back to the bedroom where, from the sound of it, he collapsed onto the bed to finish his night. Dean was left standing beside his kitchen table, dumb-struck.

The expression had morphed into a giddy grin by the time he left the house, and stayed that way as he climbed into his car, drove to the station, parked and entered the building. It earned him a fair amount of looks, since he hadn't been known to be very cheerful as of late.

"Well, aren't you all sunshine and daisies," Captain Singer commented when Dean briefly dropped by his office as agreed. "Never thought I'd ever see you so stoked to meet with Talbot."

The reminder would've been enough to bring Dean's mood down a notch, if he hadn't been able to find comfort in the thought that he'd see Cas again that very evening, and Bela Talbot not for weeks, hopefully months. She was one of their less official informers, using unsavory means Dean rarely wanted to hear the details of to find out what others couldn't. It made her one of the best, but also a pretty despicable person in Dean's opinion.

Due to her questionable ethics and the high price she asked for her services, they usually avoided working with her. This time, though, faced with their utter lack of progress on the case, Captain Singer had made the decision—desperate times called for desperate measures and all that. Hopefully she'd have something good for them.

She did. After far too many circumvolutions, during which she far too clearly savored Dean's discomfort, she gave him a name: Lilith. It wasn't much, but it was already a lot more than they would ever get from the second to third-hand dealers they caught. All they'd gathered from those was that they were chosen for their magical abilities, although the people at the lab were starting to suspect it was simply to perceive if the drug was still magically active or not so that they'd know what to sell it as.

Armed with Bela's information and trying to erase her sardonic looks from his mind, Dean returned to the station. The rest of the day was spent with Benny digging through files and archives to try and find out if they had any records of that name or if it had come up during other cases—just what Dean liked. He envied Jo, who was on the field; or at least he did, until the patrol came back in after the shift change. They were shivering, rubbing their hands to warm them, and headed straight for the break room, not caring what awful mixture the coffee machine gave them as long as it was hot.

After that Dean realized the perks of staying indoors for the time being.

Still, it was a relief when the day came to an end and he changed out of his uniform. Cas came into the station right as he stepped out of the locker room, making his stupid heart leap. Flustered, he preferred not to linger and ushered him towards his car.

They didn't get back to Dean's apartment, since they were invited to dinner at his mom's. She'd left them all of Sunday to reunite, but was eager to meet Cas and wouldn't have appreciated much more delay. To distract himself from how nervous he felt at that prospect Dean asked Cas how his day had gone.

"Well, I slept," Cas said.

Dean snorted. "That I noticed."

"Then I ate breakfast. Well, brunch, really—thank you for that by the way. Then I, um." He looked down at his hands. "I went to Kansas City."

"What? Why? And how?" Dean asked in a tight row, throwing repeated glances at Cas. Cas didn't return them, studiously looking down at his hands.

"Don't worry, Sam drove me," he said. "I wanted to see the University of Kansas Hospital."

"But why?" If Cas wanted to see a hospital like he'd said, he needn't have driven all the way there: Lawrence Memorial Hospital was more than enough.

"I just wanted to see how it was," Cas quickly replied. "And I was lucky, I saw Dr. Moseley. She is—"

Dean blinked at the familiar name. "What, you mean old Missouri?" he asked. He slowed down to stop at a red light. "She's still working?"

"Yes. You know her?"

"Yeah. She was friends with my dad, God only knows why." He shook he head as the light turned green and he focused back on the road. "I knew she worked at a hospital but now that I think about it, I never asked myself which one, or what she did there exactly."

"Well, not much, really," Cas said in that tone Dean had long since learned to identify as his driest form of sarcasm. "She is, after all, nothing but the head doctor of the hospital's magic unit."

Dean whistled. "Damn. You wouldn't think it by seeing her." He paused. "Wait, scratch that. I can definitely see it."

"I'm surprised that you haven't been in any kind of contact with her. I mean, in relation to the case you're currently working on."

Cas didn't know much about the case, as Dean was pretty mindful not to babble about anything confidential or classified, but he knew the gist of it. He knew that drugs and magic were involved and had rightly concluded that doctors specializing in healing magic could be called on for their expertise. What was surprising was that he also knew that there was no magic care unit at Lawrence Memorial Hospital and that the station had had to turn to the bigger centers of the region's larger cities.

"Nah," Dean said. "She would've been in direct contact with our lab. Pamela, probably, she's much better at talking to people than Tessa or Ash, and she's the one specializing in magical evidence."

Cas hummed in understanding. "I knew her already, Dr. Moseley," he explained. "I saw her a couple years ago at a symposium, she spoke about one of her specialties, that is to say the use of magic for diagnosis. Reading the flows of energy or analyzing its levels… It requires an extremely fine control over magic and an extensive knowledge of the human body and—" He reigned in his giddy enthusiasm. "Anyway, it was very interesting. I'd completely forgotten Kansas City was where she had her practice, until I saw her name on the board."

He'd said all of that smiling. "Cas," Dean said, suspicious. "Are you fanboying over a woman who threatened me with various kinds of bodily harm back when I was a kid?"

Cas' brow furrowed in confusion. "What?"

Dean cleared his throat. "I might've been kind of a troublesome child," he conceded. "Missouri likes quiet and good manners. What I mean is, I hope she wasn't mean to you."

"But why would she be mean to me, if she likes good manners and quiet?" Cas innocently asked.

"It's unchristian to brag, angel," Dean retorted, knocking his knuckles against Cas' thigh.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Cas said primly. "But more seriously, no, she wasn't 'mean', on the contrary. She was very welcoming, especially once I—" He stopped.

"Once what?" Dean nudged Cas again.

Cas' hand seized his. "Once she heard I was from Stanford and what I studied," Cas replied, looking down at them. "And when I showed interest in her team. They get incredibly good results for such a small unit, although evidently they could do with more personal. It's often the case away from the main cities and the coasts."

Dean got the feeling that Cas had started to say something else, but before he could pry he had to slow down. They'd reached his mother's home.

"Is that it?" Cas asked, all his attention diverted out the window.

"Yeah. Casa de Winchester. Or Campbell. I mean, the not douchey ones."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean you're lucky you weren't here for Christmas dinner," Dean snorted. He felt reluctant to leave the car, as it meant he would have to let go of Cas' hand for good, which he'd reclaimed right after he'd parked. "Or you would've had to go through meeting all the cousins."

Cas stared at him. "I didn't know you had cousins." He sounded quieter, almost hurt.

Dean winced. "Yeah, and there's a reason. We almost never see them, and believe me, that's a good thing. They're all twice removed at least. And they're all dicks." Well, Gwen was okay, but she was one in a million, it felt like.

"Oh," Cas said, lighter. "So it definitely runs in the family, then."

"I can leave you to walk home alone in the cold," Dean threatened and let go of his hand as punishment.

"You can. But your mom would drive me back, I'm sure," Cas countered when they climbed out of the car. "Because she's nice, and she'll like me."

Dean paused. "Yeah," he said with a helpless smile as he slammed his door shut. "I'm sure she will."

 

*

 

Mary did—even more than Dean had hoped, even more than she herself had expected. Clearly there was something about Cas that made the people in their family melt inside.

"I know how you feel, now," Mary whispered, sidling up to him while he was doing the dishes after dinner. She glanced back at Cas, who was back at the table animatedly talking to Sam. "Do you think there was enough?"

"To eat?" Dean murmured back. "Yeah, mom, I think the three courses dinner was enough." He got what she meant, though: Cas was by no way small or thin, but something about him made Dean want to feed him, take care of him. He wanted to be where Cas went when he needed a break from his job, from his studies, from his family—who never seemed to realize the toll they were taking on him with all the times they called for his attention and help.

All in all it was a great evening, even though Dean and Cas had to leave early since Dean had work in the morning. Leaving his bed after being woken by his alarm was much harder this time around, especially when he knew he would be leaving Cas' warm embrace for a stiff chair, the smooth touch of his sheet for dry, unforgiving paper.

Charlie cornered him in the break room, where he was getting a mid-morning well-deserved coffee refill. Neither he nor Benny had found anything after hours of poring over the archives and therefore had nothing but more hours of poring over more archives in sight. Great.

"So, Winchester," Charlie said nonchalantly. "You didn't tell me your man was that dreamy."

Dean tensed and glanced around—but fortunately they were alone in the room, and Charlie had spoken low enough not to be overheard by anyone walking past.

"Relax, I'm not dumb," she pointed out, making a grab for the pot as soon as Dean had put it back down to take the result of his efforts and sweat for herself, the snitch. "And I'm warning you: come to our LARPing weekend? There'll be no risk of us being overheard by the wrong person, so you _will_ tell me everything. And I'll tell you what you want about my girlfriend. Deal?"

Dean froze with his mug half-way to his lips, surprised—by the revelation, although he now realized it shouldn't have been that unexpected, and by how open Charlie seemed to be about it with him. "Deal."

"Good," Charlie nodded. "From what I've read on the forum, something might be coming together for the end of January, so get you boots and buckles ready."

"Unless I'm found dead buried under a ten foot pile of paper and files before that," Dean grumbled, knowing he should be heading back in, if only to make sure Benny wasn't about to commit hara-kiri through paper-cuts.

"I have faith in you," Charlie said, patting his hand.

That dreary day of research took a turn for the better when Cas dropped by in time for Dean's lunch break. He did the same on Friday, and between that and coming home to him in the evening, Dean found himself happy despite his research proving both fastidious and unfruitful. He loved stepping into his apartment and finding Cas lying on the couch, reading one of his medical journals or leafing through a reference book. After a traumatizing experience where Dean took a peek at the page over his shoulder and saw something whose existence he would've preferred to ignore, he took the habit of simply dropping a kiss on Cas' forehead and maybe ruffling his hair before he went to start dinner. Sometimes Cas would get up to help him, sometimes he'd finish his reading so he could put it all away for the evening. After they ate Cas would do the dishes, then they would watch some TV, which often devolved into a make-out session on the couch—or they didn't even pretend and headed right to the bedroom.

When they settled down to sleep afterwards, still tingly with the sensations they'd brought each other, sometimes still sweaty if they hadn't bothered with a shower, Dean thought he definitely could get used to this. Once or twice he went to sleep picturing this to be a normal occurrence, something happening every other day—like, if Cas lived in Lawrence, and could easily spend the night…

Wouldn't that be nice?

But it wasn't the case. Cas lived in Palo Alto.

It felt like he'd just arrived yesterday and already the week was drawing to an end. On Friday evening they drove to Mary's place again, to celebrate New Years Eve. There was pumpkin soup with whipped cream and a goose stuffed with apples, mashed potatoes and beans, even a pecan pie. They turned on the TV to watch the ball drop, got a phone call from grandma Campbell who was celebrating the passing of the New Year with her brother-in-law Robert. Dean got to kiss Cas at midnight, mind buzzing with happiness and a couple of beers. But afterwards, even though there was still lots of cheering and laughing—

He didn't know what made it happen. Maybe it was the taste of alcohol, maybe the perspective of Cas' near departure, maybe a sudden memory of the kid Jo and her partner had found half-crazed and sent to the hospital, where the doctors were still uncertain whether he'd recover or not; maybe it was the idea of a new year beginning, which also meant another year ending, a year _less_. Suddenly he felt disconnected, from the people around him, from their warmth, their joy, even from the sound of their laughter. For a second he stumbled, and felt cold, alone in a bubble of silence, as the knowledge of what the future held for him trickled back into his mind, followed by the awareness of how fast time flew. It was 2005 already, and in that moment of dark and quiet he saw his family, his mom, Sam, Cas, as if through a window, as if from another place where he couldn't reach them and he realized—

He would never see his mother grow old. He'd never get to watch the lines around her mouth and at the corner of her eyes grow deeper, her hair turn from gold to silver, to white maybe. He wouldn't be here when she started wearing glasses all the time instead of when reading before bed, started complaining about aches in her hands.

He might not see Sam graduate law school. He'd never see him become the successful lawyer they all knew he could be, would never know where things went with Jess, if she'd turn out to be his one or not. He wouldn't be there for his wedding, wouldn't see what dog he chose when he inevitably adopted one, what name he gave his kids.

As for Cas—Cas who was so awesome and weird and lovable and stubborn and dorky and nice, and so many of the things Dean never knew he wanted and needed… Dean wouldn't see him finally obtain that famous title of doctor, hold conferences where he'd impress everyone, save people at the head of his own team. He wouldn't see any of that, wouldn't _share_ any of that, because he wasn't meant to, because Cas would find someone else to make that life with—and damn it, it wasn't _fair_. None of it was fair.

It wasn't fair that Dean wouldn't see his mother live her life or have grandkids; it wasn't fair that he wouldn't see his brother get married and be happy; and it wasn't fair that life made Dean meet someone so extraordinary as Cas, someone with whom he could definitely see himself building something, with whom he would _want_ to build something, at the exact same moment when it told him that none of this was in the cards for him. Seeing the three of them now, around him, happy and oblivious to his inner turmoil, he felt like he missed them already—except that it was nothing to how he knew they would miss him, all their life, Mary and Sam. Maybe even Cas.

Dean didn't have faith. What little he'd carried into adulthood had been stamped down during his first year as a cop, with what he'd seen and learned. He couldn't believe in a God that was nothing but good but would still let such awful things happen. He didn't believe in an afterlife, where you were reunited with all the people you'd loved and lost. To him there was nothing—you died, and it was all over, and you weren't even there anymore to notice.

And even if there _was_ an afterlife and he was reunited with the people he'd loved and lost, and he found his dad waiting for him there, well. Maybe it was an awful thing to say, but Dean would trade an eternity with him for some more years with the three people currently in the living-room of his mother's house.

Another beer was pushed into his hand. He blinked, met Cas' warm, slightly probing gaze. The moment passed. It left something in its wake though, a cold fright hovering at the edge of Dean's vision and thoughts. He did his best to ignore it, to grin properly at how well Mary and Cas got along, to laugh at Sam's increasing clumsiness, which peaked when his phone rang, displaying Jess' name, and he fumbled so bad he dropped it to the carpet.

It left him exhausted. Cas, of course, had noticed, because he knew him quite well by now. He didn't ask, not directly. Instead he was the one to suggest they leave and, as he drove them back, he simply took Dean's hand and let him be quiet.

It was only later that he said something. They were lying in bed after a lovemaking during which Dean had maybe clung to him a little bit to tightly, urged him a little bit too deep, kissed him a little bit too hard—unable to stop himself, as if he'd wanted, needed to take a part of Cas and keep it with him, inside him, forever, even in death. Even though midnight was long past, fireworks were still going off from time to time, throwing flashes of light that briefly seeped through the blinds. It made it impossible to fall asleep.

"You're quiet," Cas said, brushing his nose against Dean's nape while his fingers played with the fine hairs under his bellybutton.

Dean kept getting dragged out of his slumber by every new snap and boom outside, but he was warm, comfortable with Cas lying so close to him, surrounding him. It didn't even occur to him to lie.

"I'm tired." He hadn't planned to say more, but he was too worn out to be able to pretend, down to the bone it felt like. "I'm tired of living knowing everything I do might be the last. I'm tired of going to work and wondering if this is it, if that shift will be the one where things go awry. I'm tired of hesitating every time I'm about to climb into my car, because I know the statistics and I know there's a damn high chance that I'll end up one of their numbers. I'm tired of picturing that last moment, when I'll _know_ and think: 'Shit, this is it', of wondering what will come next. I'm tired of not quite enjoying the time I spent with people, with you, because I keep wondering if it'll be the last, or how many of them I'll get to have before my time's up. I'm tired of saying goodbye without being sure of when I'll see you again. And I'm tired of—of forgetting all that, for a minute, or for an hour, only to always, _always_ remember—"

His eyes were burning. He squeezed them shut and tugged Cas' arm tighter around him, urging him to scoot even closer. Cas did, no questions asked. He pressed his chest against Dean's back, slid one of his legs between Dean's, ran a soothing hand through his hair and dropped a kiss on his temple before he settled with his cheek against Dean's shoulder-blade.

Silence stretched. Dean hadn't expected Cas to say anything—because what could he have said to make any of this better?—yet when he didn't Dean felt something inside of him falter. Even Cas couldn't help him with this.

But that was what death was, wasn't it? A free fall into the unknown, for which, torn away from everything and everyone you knew and loved, you were utterly alone.

He let out a trembling breath, trying to keep it quiet. In that same second Cas took a deep breath in.

"There's something," he said. "You know I'm in my last year of med school."

Dean frowned, wondering what that had to do with what he'd just said, but grateful for the distraction. "Yeah?"

"Once that's over and done with I will start my residency training at a hospital. And— and the plan was, well. The field was never a question, as magical medicine is considered as one, with a specific formation. As to where my residency will take place…" He put his hand flat on Dean's belly, as if looking for its warmth, while his other hand kept soothingly brushing Dean's hair. "We apply to several programs which we list in order of preference. And given the field I've chose and my results, there are… high chances that I'll get my first choice, whatever it is." Dean squeezed Cas' wrist, part of him amused by his boyfriend's ability to brag while still sounding humble. He didn't say anything though, only listened intently, curious about the nervousness he could hear in Cas' voice. "So there are several options. One was to do my residency at the hospital where I studied, or at least to stay in California." Dean's brow furrowed at Cas' use of the past tense. "Another was to go back to Illinois. Maybe not to Joliet, I'm not sure I'd want to live _that_ close to my family again, but there are residency programs for magical medicine in Chicago, Springfield, St Louis…" He sighed. "But now…"

He trailed off.

"Now what?" Dean prompted

"I—" Cas cleared his throat. "The University of Kansas Hospital is a reputed medical center. And they do happen to have a Healing Magic residency program."

It took Dean a couple of seconds to understand fully what Cas was implying.

"Dr. Moseley was… more than open to discussion when I told her that I had—"

"Wait, no," Dean blurted. He rolled onto his back, forcing Cas to scoot back and take his hand away. "You can't—"

He didn't finish, but his meaning was clear. Cas couldn't do that. He couldn't throw away the opportunity of a residency program at Stanford University, or at the University of Chicago. He couldn't uproot his whole life, he couldn't change so many things about it, about his plans for the future. Not if his purpose in doing so was to be closer to Dean—and especially not since they both knew how little time Dean had left.

They stared at each other in the dark, eyes wide, breath halted.

"It was just a thought," Cas said quickly, placatingly. He leaned his head back onto his pillow, lowering his eyes. "We should try to sleep," he added after a while.

He closed his eyes and pretended to do just that. Yet now matter how easily he'd let go of the matter, Dean's unease wasn't soothed in the least.

It took him a long time to fall asleep.

 

*

 

Cas didn't broach the topic again the following morning, or afternoon. Dean for his part had put the matter out of his mind, as another realization had settled there: it was Saturday.

Cas was due to leave on Sunday.

Fortunately, Dean didn't work on weekends. He showed Cas around Lawrence, took him to his former high school and to Jay Bird's dinner, where his dad had proposed to his mom. In the afternoon they pushed all the way to the lake and its park, where Dean had taught Sam to swim and to ride a bike without his training wheels before he even started school. The weather had warmed considerably, almost disturbingly so, as if to make up for how cold it had been not a week before. The ice had almost completely melted and the sun shone through the naked trees, giving the water a pale, blueish hue.

"You'll have to come to Joliet one day," Cas said as they stopped on the bank before heading back towards the parking lot. "I'd love to show you my hometown too. You could meet my sister. And my cousins." After a second he amended, " _Some_ of my cousins."

Dean nodded and didn't point out there might not be time for that.

They bought take out on their way back, because they wanted to have as much time for each other as possible. That was when Dean discovered Cas had almost never eaten Chinese and had no clue about how to use chopsticks. The ensuing lesson wasn't very successful, much to his amusement and to Cas' frustration. In the end he gave up and used the fork Dean had brought him, eating so sullenly it made Dean laugh.

His merriment faded soon. When they settled in front of the TV, Dean realized it would be the last evening where they'd do so. Cas was bound to leave at the same time as Sam, early in the afternoon the following day. At the thought Dean tightened the arm he'd wrapped around Cas' shoulder.

"Dean," Cas said.

"Yeah?"

"Before we left for winter break, my supervisor told me he pushed me forward for a heavy round of surgery in the second half of January. It's nothing definite yet, but—"

"You're finished with all your tests and all?" Dean asked.

"Yes, I'm all clear," Cas lifted his head from Dean's shoulder to frown at him. "That's why he could do that. I didn't tell you?"

"Must've skipped your mind upon arrival," Dean said with a smile, remembering all too well what had happened once Cas had landed and most of all once they'd reached Dean's apartment.

He hadn't meant that as anything suggestive, yet Cas' eyes dropped to his lips at once.

"Yes. It must have," he said, and kissed him.

Dean's eyelids fluttered closed as he welcomed the kiss and returned it. He parted his lips, tilted his head to the side while his arm slid to Cas' waist to drag him even closer, his other hand coming to brush against Cas' cheek, his throat. Cas was half-way into his lap before he broke off the kiss.

"Wait, Dea—" The name ended in a garbled sound as Dean attacked Cas' throat, making the other man melt against him. "Dean."

Dean grinned against Cas' skin, thrilled by how wrecked his voice came out—then surprised when Cas tore himself away and pushed Dean back against the couch, putting as much distance between them as was possible without standing up.

"Wait," Cas said. "January."

"What about it?" Dean asked, confused.

"If my supervisor's suggestion comes through and I operate—" That was when Dean remembered what Cas had said right before he'd gotten… distracted. His eyes widened.

"You…?"

"I will get a recovery week afterwards," Cas nodded.

Dean's face split into a grin. "Yeah?"

"Like I said, it's nothing definite yet," Cas said, obviously unwilling for them to get their hopes up. "But I thought it might be easier…"

He trailed off.

"What?" Dean prompted.

"When I leave," Cas went on. Dean's smile faded. "If we both have an idea of when and where we'll see each other again."

"Yeah. Yes, it helps," Dean said, dropping a grateful kiss onto his lips. "If you get it, how do we do this? I can take a week off and fly over to California—"

"No, no," Cas said. "I'd much prefer to come here myself."

"Oh, good," Dean said, kissing him again.

"Good?" Cas asked.

"I hate flying."

Cas' eyebrows rose. "You do?"

"Yes." He pulled back and gave Cas his most flirtatious smirk. "But for you, babe," he said, "I'd fly to the moon."

Cas let out the most undignified snort Dean had ever heard him make and almost choked. He had to cough twice, leaning heavily on Dean, who rubbed his back with a delighted grin on his face. He'd never provoked such a reaction in his boyfriend before.

"Your jokes are awful," Cas said when he straightened.

"Hey, you're laughing, Dean retorted.

"Am not."

"Are t—" He was cut off by Cas kissing him, which was so far from displeasing that Dean let him. Cas kept it easy and slow, but deep, pushing Dean into the couch because he'd noticed how much Dean liked that.

"So," Dean said when the kiss ended. "One month?"

Cas' eyes were dark, full of promises. They flickered towards Dean's before returning to his lips when Dean licked them.

"Less than," he smiled and leaned in again.

 

*

 

Their tentative promise didn't change anything to the fact that Cas was leaving the following day. After driving him and Sam to the airport, where they all ate a quick, mediocre lunch, Dean drove straight to his mother's house on the way back. She always had a better stored pantry than him.

They made comfort brownies, which Dean brought with him to work the following day with half a mind not to share any with his colleagues.

He ended up giving a piece to Charlie when she surprised him again in the break room at midmorning, in exchange for an understanding ear.

"Dude," she said when he complained about not seeing Cas' face for nearly month—because phone calls were nice, but after a whole week of Cas and Cas' smiles and Cas' hands and Cas' warmth he felt like they would never be enough again. "Why don't you use Skype?"

"Skype?"

Another piece of chocolatey goodness left the plate so Charlie would agree to drag him back to her desk, show him the website and explain everything about how the software worked.

"That… looks nice," Dean said, surprised Sam wasn't all over this already.

"You'll have to make sure your internet connection doesn't suck too bad," Charlie pointed out in between two mouthfuls of cake. "But then you're all set."

"Okay," Dean said. "Thanks."

"I know, what would you do without me?" she asked. "Also, good news the second: LARPing." She whirled her chair around so she was facing Dean and pointed at him. "It's happening," she went on ominously. "Weekend before last of January. The 22nd, I think?"

"Won't we freeze?" Dean asked, because from what she'd told him, he'd understood that this was mostly an outdoors activity.

Charlie only shrugged. "We'll make bonfires," she said, like it solved everything. "Also, there's always lots of running around. And fighting."

Dean stared.

"Don't worry," she said, patting his forearm and pushing him back towards his desk. "We have a permit."

 

*

 

Dean was eager to share his—okay, Charlie's—software discovery, but over the next days, then weeks, he never found the right moment to talk to Cas about it.

As it turned out, Cas' idea about doing his residency in Kansas City hadn't been 'just a thought'. That much became obvious when he brought it up again. And again. And again.

"It's a lot closer to my family," he'd muse. "But not _too_ close."

"It's a smaller unit than I'm used to," he'd say. "It felt… nicer, in a way."

"And I want to be able to spend more time with you, too," he'd add.

Those conversations never went well. Because Dean… Well.

Dean didn't agree.

It wasn't that he didn't want Cas moving close to Lawrence. On the contrary, there was nothing he wanted more. That, and everything that came with it: the crazy schedules and the puzzle of trying to find time for each other despite it all, the house they'd buy halfway between their respective work places instead of his tiny apartment, that feeling of vexation or amusement when Cas sent him packing on a morning… He wanted to be exasperated by Cas' fucking procedural cop shows, by Cas not allowing him to criticize their inaccuracies, and to take his revenge by becoming a fan of Dr. Sexy MD. He wanted them to buy furniture together, fight about the couch color or how a shelf was to be mounted, only to make up two seconds later. He wanted to get better at cooking and Cas to be the first to enjoy it. He wanted to always be there when Cas came home after a bad day, after a round of operations, and he wanted Cas to be there when he trudged through the door weighted down by the things he'd seen. He wanted his arms and his warmth and his voice, his concerned eyes and his soothing voice. He wanted to rest, simply, rest near him, rest without counting the days, the years they'd left together.

But he couldn't have that. And trying to get whatever part of it he could for whatever time he had left was selfish. It wasn't _realistic_.

Soon, Dean was going to die. When that happened, what would Cas be left with, if he moved to Kansas? Years before he completed his residency in an unfamiliar city where he would know next to no one, and almost all the memories he'd have made there related to Dean, to what could've been—and was, once, briefly.

And even if Dean wasn't going to die soon, it wouldn't change anything. He still couldn't accept Cas throwing away his chances at an incredible career at a famous hospital, moving away from his friends and family just for…

Well. Just for him.

Cassie had seen that, all those years ago, when she'd been confronted to the same choice. She'd looked at Dean, at what he'd had to offer, and she'd said, _It's not enough_. And she'd been right—because what was Dean? He wasn't like her, he didn't know how to dream big and would never be able to leave everyone and everything he knew to make it come true. He wasn't like Sam, with his smarts and his Stanford scholarship and doors opening left and right for him in the best law firms in the country. And he certainly wasn't like Cas, with his magic and his upcoming doctor title and his big heart and his ability to really save people. No, he was just Dean, one insignificant little cop in an insignificant little town, a man of questionable merit who'd scraped through high school and a bachelor degree, and who now failed at doing much good no matter how hard he tried.

Cas couldn't give up everything for _that_.

He didn't seem to get that, though. To him, Dean refusing to let him move to Kansas was exactly the same as Dean being reluctant to let him start their relationship; it was Dean going back on his resolution to try and live whatever life he'd left to the fullest. Except that he was wrong. Choosing to be with someone, even exclusively, had nothing to in common with moving half-way across the country to be with that person. The former was nothing but an attempt, a wish to see if they could be good to each other, no strings attached—whereas the latter was commitment, it was plans.

Dean couldn't afford to make plans, not anymore. Especially not if they involved someone else's life the way that one would. Cas just didn't understand.

"No, Dean," he snapped. " _You_ don't understand."

Their call had started as a joyous one, with Cas opening with the news that his supervisor's recommendation had worked and that he would, indeed, be part of the team for the series of operations he'd mentioned back at New Year's. In his excitement Dean had nearly stirred his eggs out of the pan and burnt his fingers on too warm toast. They'd started to plan at once what they'd do—until Cas had mentioned that he'd try to fit in his interview for KUMC's residency program during that week.

That was when Dean had found out that what Cas had called 'just a thought' wasn't so much a persistent idea as a plan already in motion. That he'd already included several residency programs in Kansas and Missouri in his applications back in freaking _October_. That his visit in December hadn't been made out of sheer curiosity, but to check out the hospital, to meet with the students and residents, to make sure he'd be okay with working there before he definitely confirmed his appointment for an interview. Meeting Missouri had just been a bonus.

Dean hadn't known a God damned thing about all this. Even Sam had known more than him: he'd known why he was driving Cas to Kansas City and back. Hell, that was why he'd agreed to play taxi at all.

"Explain it to me then," Dean challenged. "Or is it another one of these things I'll be the last one to know about?"

That conversation—if you could call it that—didn't go anywhere. None of the previous ones had, and this time Dean had to interrupt it to go to work. When he and Cas next spoke, they both were careful not to mention it and talked of other things. Yet their disagreement remained in the background, an undercurrent of tension and hurt digging a slope that kept growing steeper and more slippery, and led right back to that bone of contention.

The worst was, at times Dean could see Cas' point, why Cas would want to be near. When he cooked breakfast and had to remind himself to only make eggs for one, when he came home to an unbearably empty flat at the end of the day, when he fell on a show he knew Cas would've asked him to stop on while channel-surfing, when it was the middle of the night and he was still awake, hearing nothing but silence in the room… In all these moments when he missed Cas acutely, Cas being away didn't feel natural, didn't feel _normal_. If Cas got that impression too, Dean understood completely why he'd want to right the situation.

But at other times he remembered what 'righting the situation' would imply, especially in the long term. It might play right into the fantasies Dean couldn't help but entertain, but it would not 'right' anything. There wasn't anything to right. Or rather, there wouldn't be.

"There _is_ ," Cas countered. It was nearly a week later. He'd called to give Dean the time of his arrival, due on Friday the following week, if all went well at the hospital. Yet once again their exchange had devolved into _this_. It was like it was the only thing they talked about lately. "You can't tell me the past five months have been satisfying to you, Dean. Besides—"

"Cas—"

" _Besides_ ," he spat. "Not everything is about you."

"Oh yeah?" Dean scoffed. "How is you moving to Kansas anything but about me?"

"Because that hospital needs me, Dean!" Cas snapped. "Or someone like me. Do you even know why Dr. Moseley has no plans of retiring, even though she's reached the age where she could consider it?"

"What the fuck does it have to d—"

"Because no one else has her strength and control in their medical team. Right now they can still operate, but once she's gone? They have no guarantee they'll find a durable replacement. Doctors with strong medical abilities are coveted, Dean," he went on. "There are always more positions to fill than there are candidates. Oh, it's highly probable someone will apply and be taken on. But it's just as probable that they'll take off again as soon as a better opportunity turns up, which won't take long, believe me. And a magical team needs stability to function properly."

"So what, they're floundering, and you're the young magic prodigy that'll save the Titanic?"

"I know my abilities, Dean," Cas replied testily. "They're not common. I'd be a good addition to that team, I'd help take off some of the weight off Dr. Moseley's shoulders, at least for the duration of my residency. I'd make a difference."

"You'd make a difference anywhere, Cas," Dean pointed out. "Why choose the middle of bumfuck nowhere? You said it yourself: you will get better offers. Hell, you probably have already, haven't you?"

Cas didn't reply at once, which was answer enough. "It doesn't matter—"

"The hell it doesn't," Dean cut him off. "I can't let you do that, I can't let you throw away—"

"I wish you would realize," Cas said icily, "that there is no you 'letting' me do anything or not here. This is not your decision to make."

"Oh, and it's hundred percent yours, then? I don't get a say in it?"

"It is, and you don't," Cas retorted. "Since we can't have a proper conversation about this, since you are entirely unable to _listen_ —"

"You're the one who's not listening to me, you dick!"

"So now you're down to calling me names. Charming," Cas said flatly.

Dean felt a hot burst of anger—and shame, which stuck the words in his throat.

"You better think long and hard about this, Dean," Cas went on, voice hard. "About what that means, and what you want it to mean. Because I _am_ putting KUMC as my first choice, so if that interview goes well and my application goes through—and there are high chances it will—I'll be living in Kansas next year. And the year after that. And you'll have to deal with it, one way or another."

He'd hung up before Dean could find an answer to that.

 

*

 

Dean spent the next few minutes with his head buried in his hands. He had no idea what to do.

He hated fighting with Cas, but Cas was being a stubborn _idiot_. Dean was right, Cas was the one who didn't listen, who refused to hear anything he didn't like. Dean was just being reasonable right now. He was being _responsible_.

Wasn't he?

Only the silence of his darkened living-room answered him, and he sighed. He was exhausted. There was no point in thinking about it any longer, at least not tonight. He glanced down at his half-finished plate—he'd barely started eating when Cas had called. Beside it was a piece of paper on which Dean had scrawled Cas' flight information under the heading 'FRIDAY 28!!!'. In his excitement he'd underlined it twice. Now all of it was gone and Dean's dinner had gone cold. Not that it mattered: he'd lost his appetite too.

With a sigh, he stood up. He carried his plate to the kitchen, and threw its content away. Then he went to his room and got ready for bed.

Maybe it would be best to give it some time, he thought once he'd laid down. He stared up at the ceiling; he'd grown so familiar with its irregularities over the past months, the thin crack in the bottom right corner, the old grey spot left by a leak before he'd moved in here… He could've drawn it with his eyes closed, even though his hands had never known what to do with a pen. His handwriting was sloppy, all capitals because it was the only way he'd ever managed to make it somewhat readable.

He closed his eyes. Yes, he'd give it some time. Tomorrow was Friday. Charlie had told him they'd be leaving right after work so that they could help setting up the tents, booths and décor on Saturday morning. He'd take that LARPing weekend to put some distance between him and Cas, him and their disagreement. He'd cool off. That way he'd be able to call Cas on Monday to wish him good luck at the hospital, reassure him that all would be going well, and be entirely honest about it. They wouldn't talk about next year, or Cas' interview, not that week—and if Cas still wanted to broach the subject, Dean would tell him to wait until they were face to face.

With that decision in mind, he tried to go to sleep—in vain. In the end, because he needed at least four hours to be operational and because part of him was still pissed at Cas for making all the decisions on his own and being a _stubborn asshole_ , he got back up and went to fetch the bottle of whiskey. Two could play that game, he thought as he poured himself a glass, then two, then three.

After that he did sleep. It didn't mean his mood had improved the next morning. If possible it had worsened, as his exhaustion was now doubled with a dull headache. Fortunately it was Friday, and everyone took his sullenness as a sign that he couldn't wait for the week to be over. They steered clear of him, didn't stand in his way to the coffee machine—he always let them finish the pot he made so they'd better—and only talked to him when necessary. Even Charlie waited until the end of the day to approach his desk, and that was because she'd decided it was time for them to pack up and leave.

Since she was the one who knew where they were going, she was the one driving. They took her car, a tiny yellow thing Dean didn't even bother to criticize because he would definitely be dead before he was done listing everything that was wrong with it. It didn't prevent him from grumbling as he folded himself in five just to climb into the passenger seat.

"So, Dean," Charlie said once they'd driven past the city limits. Her tone made Dean's hackles rise. "How's the man?"

Of course she'd broach the topic when Dean was trapped in that tiny tin can with no means of escape.

"I don't know," he said, stubbornly staring through the window, even though there wasn't much to see since the night had already fallen and they'd left the lights of Lawrence behind. "We haven't talked much lately."

It wasn't a lie: in between their busy schedule, planning Cas' visit and their late tendency to rehash the same, still unsolved disagreements, they hadn't really had the time to talk about what was going on in their lives.

"Busy week?" Charlie pried.

"Not really, no," Dean grunted. He hoped it was dismissive enough without being rude. No such luck.

"Trouble in paradise?"

He snorted.

Charlie wasn't deterred by his lack of verbal answer. "What happened?"

What the hell, Dean thought. Why not? He didn't have anyone he could talk to about this, not really. Sam was already busy enough as it was, all stressed about the outcome of his applications, and he wouldn't want to take any sides between his brother and one of his best friends. His mom would only worry, she wouldn't understand, she'd ask questions Dean didn't want her to ask, because he wouldn't be able to lie when he answered. Lisa knew he was in a relationship, but not with whom, especially not that it was with a man. And that wasn't the sort of thing he talked about with his colleagues, not even Benny or Donna. Charlie had become an exception, but only because he'd inadvertently let something slip.

But she was now, and if that was the case, why the hell not talk to her about Cas? Especially since she was asking? Maybe that was what Dean needed: someone in front of whom he could let it all out.

"He wants to move here," he mumbled.

"What do you mean?"

That's when he remembered Charlie knew next to nothing about Cas. All the better.

"He studies medicine in California," he explained. "He wants to move here for his residency."

Charlie frowned, her eyes never leaving the road. "Sounds like a good thing?" she said.

"Yeah?" Dean snorted again. "Well, it isn't."

"Why?"

"Because he can do better than a residency in fucking Kansas City," Dean said. "A lot better. He's doing healing magic, and he's really good at it. More than good. And he could go anywhere."

"True," Charlie conceded. She blinked. "Wait, is that why he was sick the other day?"

"Yes," Dean said, surprised she'd remembered. "Operation gone wrong."

Charlie grimaced. "Yikes." At Dean's curious glance she added: "Yeah, I know how it is. You know my girlfriend, Gilda?"

"Not really, no?"

She threw him a look, brief but chiding. "She's doing her residency at KUMC right now." Dean flinched at the name, which he was starting to loathe. "But when she started med school she tried for a speciality in healing magic. Turns out she wasn't powerful enough for that, so she ended up choosing pediatrics, even though she's still able to use magic for smaller things." Her voice grew quiet when she admitted, "I never told her how relieved I was when that happened. She went through a couple of operations before she and her supervisor agreed that it was too much, and the state it left her in…" She shook her head. "But Cas must have stronger abilities than she does, if he's gone that far, so hopefully he fares better?"

"I think, yeah. I mean, I've never seen it live—" As he spoke he wondered how it was, what Cas looked like when he was using magic. If his hair stood on end, charged with static electricity, if his voice lowered on the words he pronounced, if his eyes glowed white and blue like magic users' did when performing a powerful spell, if he had that same focused expression than when he was deep in thought, or ensconced in his reading…

Dean blinked and shook his head. Now wasn't the time to think about that. Especially not when he was stuck in a car with no leg room with a colleague he was just getting to know.

"From what he and Sam say, and the way he sails through operations when nothing goes wrong, yeah. He's really powerful. Which is why…" He huffed out a breath. "Don't get me wrong, I'm sure KUMC is a good center, but he could easily go for the top ones, you know?"

Charlie hummed. "But, you know, his choice doesn't really matter. If he does healing magic, he'll always find a position. And if he's good at it, it'll always be a good position, no matter where he did his residency."

"Yeah, right," Dean said, skeptical.

"And since it doesn't matter," Charlie insisted. "Why would him moving here be such a bad idea? You can't blame him for wanting to be closer to you. It means that he likes you, that he takes your relationship seriously enough to…" She sighed. "Look, I've done the long distance thing too. I know it can suck. Most of the time it does suck, a lot. Surely you agree with that?"

"Of course I do," Dean said.

"Then why…?"

"Because that'd be him doing all of this for me, him giving up everything for fucking _me_!" Dean burst out. "His career, his friends, hell, his family. If it wasn't for me, he wouldn't have considered that place as a viable option for a second. He'd be set for the University of Chicago, or—" He crossed his arms. "He can't uproot his whole life just for me."

"Why not?" Dean threw her a look, which she missed, her eyes focused on the road. "No really, why not? Where he does his residency doesn't matter when it comes to his career. If his friends are good friends he will not lose them by moving and anyway, he'll make new ones. And from his accent—because yes, I totally eavesdropped on you that time you lingered long enough to show him the station and your desk on lunch break—he definitely didn't grow up in California, so I'd bet he's already living away from his family. He's not giving up on anything, not really. So why not?"

"Because—" Dean floundered. "Because what if something happens to me? Like, what if I end up in a car accident mere months after he starts there, what if—"

"What if you slip in the shower and break your scull, or get attacked by a rabid dog, or eat a taco with rotten meat and die of acute food poisoning, or a piano falls on you while you walk down the street because the movers who decided to fit it in through the window didn't secure it enough before they lifted it?"

Dean stared at her.

"I have a vivid imagination," she said. "But point is: dude, you can't live like that." Dean huffed and looked out the window, because if only she _knew_. "Constantly worrying about what could happen to you whenever you do something—that _will_ kill you for sure," Charlie went on, undeterred. "Because if you let that lead your existence, then you won't be living at all. Everyone might die at any time and not know it. But you can't just give up on any life plan you might make, or someone might want to make with you, just because of the possibility that the unlucky bastard of the day might be you."

"But what if I know for a fact it'll be me?" he murmured to himself, looking at the utter darkness outside.

He hadn't thought Charlie's hearing would be sharp enough to catch that sentence. As it turned out, it was. "What do you mean?"

 _Crap_.

"Dean," she asked when he didn't answer, tone suspicious, almost apprehensive, "have you been receiving death threats?"

That startled Dean into glancing back at her. "What?"

"Because of the case? Is that it?"

"What?" Dean repeated. "No. No!" he added, louder, when Charlie didn't seem convinced. "It's just…" He sighed. "I do have a bad feeling about it."

That wasn't a lie, not entirely. He might not be entirely honest about the reasons why he thought something might happen to him, but the more they pursued that case, the more he suspected that was what was going to do him in.

They'd hadn't found any mention of a Lilith in their records. They'd contacted the police departments of the surrounding area, of Topeka and Kansas City, but they hadn't come up with anything either. Neither had the FBI, unless the information was classified. Whether it was the case or not, it said a lot about how serious the situation was. It was deeply worrying that someone who was apparently extremely well implanted in the area, who had solid contacts in other states and no difficulty whatsoever to find people to work for them could've stayed under their radar so completely for so long. Dean would've started to suspect Bela had been pulling their leg with that name, if it weren't for the reactions they'd gotten when mentioning it on undercover gigs. As soon as they heard it people grew pale, closed themselves off entirely and stopped talking; sometimes they suddenly acted as if he wasn't there, looked past him like they didn't see him, walked past him like they didn't hear him. The most they'd obtained was someone's angry, terrified hiss: "You don't find Lilith. _She_ finds _you_."

Such a situation called for a long time undercover job. The various departments involved in the case were having talks with the FBI to determine who would do what and where. It would probably be the FBI, but if they decided that they couldn't spare an agent for that long on a mission in a town as 'small' as Lawrence, then it would fall on the local police—and if it fell to Dean, who might not be an inspector yet but had distinguished himself for his skills at undercover work and who, aside from his utter lack of magical abilities, could definitely look the part…

It was a relief, in a way. To finally have an idea of what was going to happen, or what was likely to happen. It made some part of Dean settle and quieten—that same part that had been growing within him since Sam's birthday, that dark nebula of thoughts that made his eyes linger on the packages of white-blue pills or shimmery powder still buzzing with magic they confiscated, that made him feel tempted to take advantage of the commotion of an arrest to slip one into his pocket. It was the part that knew that one or two pills would be enough to give a body like his, so unfamiliar with magic, a high from which it would never come down, never recover. It was the part that whispered in his ear at night, remarking that even though he couldn't choose whether he'd die or not, at least he could choose when and how. He could regain that small ounce of control over his life, over his death, if only he gave himself the means to do it.

He hadn't given in yet. Dean Winchester wasn't a quitter, he told himself. He wasn't one to give up as long as there still was a breath in him, as long as life was still willing to give him something, be it only a second. He wasn't one to be so selfish, to go like that and let his family and friends deal with the aftermath—his mom who would always wonder why, Cas who would know why and never forgive him for it, Sam who would forgive him but spend his whole life with a limp in his heart. No, he couldn't do that to them.

It wasn't always easy to convince himself that he wouldn't, though. Especially not as of late, in the damp, the cold, the dark of winter, with all his conversations with Cas ending in fights and the case growing uglier with every day that passed.

"Yeah, tell me about it," Charlie muttered, snapping him out of his thoughts. " _Everyone_ has a bad feeling about this. I mean, drugs and magic?" She shook her head. "But Dean," she added cautiously. "Being a cop is a dangerous job. You knew that when you started. But if it bothers you that much now, or if it starts preventing you from living your life… Maybe you should, you know." She hesitated. "Stop?"

"No," Dean replied at once. It was… It just wasn't an option.

"Then what, you're just going to make yourself unhappy? _And_ Cas? All of that on a maybe?"

"I just think he deserves better," Dean mumbled sullenly. "That's all."

"Of course you'd think that," Charlie grunted.

Dean was surprised by her dry tone. "What do you mean?" he asked, narrowing his eyes.

"You do realize that your stance is totally contradictory, right?" Charlie said, still looking right at the road—only this time it seemed more dismissive than for safety reasons. "I mean, on the one hand, you say he deserves better than KUMC, than _you_ , because in your warped mind you suck so bad no one should or could want to be around you for any length of time, let alone want to build a life with you; but on the other hand, you tell me that if something happens to you, Cas will be left with nothing?" She grunted again. "Well, I got news for you. One, you're totally a catch. You know, once you drop the macho former bullying jock act. But two," she went on, talking over Dean's utterly confused ' _What?_ ', "no, you're not the center of the universe. Not even of Cas' universe. If something happens to you, yeah, it'll suck, it'll be hard—but he'll survive. He'll live. And no, he won't be alone. He won't have nothing. He'll still have a job he likes, and hobbies, and his family, and his old friends, and the new friends he'll make after he moves, and everything else." She rolled her eyes. "Men, I swear."

Dean remained silent as he took all of that in.

"Also," Charlie pointed out a couple of minutes later as she put on her blinker to signal they were leaving the highway, "love isn't a matter of deserving or not. I know that when you love someone, it always feel like you fall short. But that's called being biased. Everyone is—and lives with it."

"I didn't say anything about—" Somehow he couldn't get the word out.

Charlie patted his forearm. "You'll figure it out, I'm sure," she said, almost patronizing but also nicer than she'd been moments ago. Dean still humphed and crossed his arms.

The next half hour was spent in silence, before they started approaching the LARPing rendezvous point and Charlie started explaining in more detail how things were going to go. Dean, more than relieved to let the matter drop, listened attentively until they arrived.

 

*

 

The weekend was short, but lasted enough for Dean to find out two things: one, LARPing was definitely his thing; two, sleeping in a tent and bag in the middle of winter? A lot less so. Which was why he was sad to see it come to an end, yet glad at the same time that he'd find his bed again, for which he'd lost most of the misgivings he'd accumulated since summer.

Since Charlie had been the one to take him, he had to stay as long as she did and help out with packing up everything and tidying up to make sure they left the camping site as pristine as they'd found it. It took most of Sunday afternoon and, when evening came, only one tent was left standing, large enough to hold two dozen people and a fire whose smoke could escape thanks to a hole in the ceiling. The organizers had planned a small party to celebrate another meeting gone well and thank the people who'd come early and/or stayed behind to help—like Charlie and Dean.

Dean was all for the idea, eager to drink to warm himself up since he wouldn't be the one driving, until they announced they'd open the celebration with a small scrying session, because of course they would. Magic abounded in LARPing, taking the form of innocuous spells that could be learned quickly and could be used without license, of charms people would take home with them to keep them luck for the few days during which the magic would linger, of small illusions to make a costume look better as long as you didn't squint at it. Of course they'd think a little divination would be the perfect ending to their weekend.

"Can't we do that later?" Dean complained, pretending that he found the idea lame and needed to be drunker than he currently was to agree to it. If he was lucky and they did postpone it, he could maybe pretend he was too drunk to participate when the time came. It sure beat the idea of admitting that he was terrified at the thought of looking into one of these fucking mirrors again.

All his plans fell to dust when Charlie shook her head. "Nope. It has to be now if we want it to work properly," she said imperiously. Obviously, having been elected Queen of Moondoor over the weekend had gotten to her head. She was still wearing the crown, which she'd spelled to look like real gold instead of gaudy plastic.

"What do you mean?"

She blinked at him. "This is your first time?" Before Dean could even reply, she put a hand on his shoulder and added, "Let me enlighten you, then, Young Padawan. See, a scrying mirror, when you use the right spell on it, gives you an insight into your future self's consciousness, right?"

"Right," Dean mumbled.

"For that to be possible, it follows a line, whose end point will be determined by the spell. And for you to see something, you have to make sure that that point falls on an active patch of consciousness. Meaning that future you must be awake, which isn't a given if we end up projecting ourselves to 2 a.m. on a future week day. You following me up until now?" Dean nodded mutely. "Now comes the tricky part: to measure how far that line of consciousness will reach, we use what we call 'natural' time measurements, since magic is bound to them too: the revolution of the Earth around the sun, the phases of the moon, or the rotation of the Earth on its axis. As you probably know, those don't correspond to our hours, days, months or years, not quite. So if you're not careful, you'll end up projecting at the entirely wrong time."

"Okay," Dean said tentatively, unsure about whether he was still understanding.

"The easiest way to avoid that is to use the revolution of the Earth and project four revolutions in the future—that way you're sure to snag a leap year and catch up the hours you might be missing otherwise." Dean nodded, remembering that was exactly was Brady had done. Part of him sniggered: the douchebag had actually taken the easiest path, and simply used his friends' ignorance on the matter to make it seem like he was doing something special. "But we here in Moondoor just love to make things more complicated. Our tradition is to use moon cycles; as many moon cycles as we've had meetings. This one is our 51st event. The organizers have calculated that it'll carry us about a thousand five hundred days in the future, plus a couple of hours—we're lucky."

"A thousand five—" Dean started, doing a rapid calculation in his head. "That's about four years too."

Charlie smiled. "Yes, actually. Coincidences. But right now it's what, 5 p.m., half past?" she said, squinting at the rapidly darkening sky. The weather was cloudy, but it was obvious the sun had set, or was about to. Given that all technological instruments like phones and watches had been confiscated until the participants left the event for good, they hadn't any better way to measure the time. "Add one or two hours, in four years time… I know about me, but most of these people?" she asked, gesturing at the circle around them, waiting for the last of the group to finish their packing and join them to finally start the party. "All boring adults, maybe with kids to boot. In short, there are high chances half of them will be in bed and asleep before 9 p.m. And we can't have that."

"Right," Dean said slowly. "'Cause if they're asleep then they'll see…?"

"Nothing. Well, some people think that if future you has a very vivid dream then maybe you could see that but—" She shrugged. "It would probably just be, well. Black. Like when you're asleep."

"And what if you're dead?" Dean asked, voice trembling because…

Because if he remembered well, Brady had taken out his scrying mirror during the first half of the evening, right after they'd eaten dinner. It hadn't been late then—early enough that Sam and his friends had seen themselves still at work, or getting a drink with colleagues, or in the middle of the day at the other end of the world, or at home. But Dean, with his sometimes hectic schedule… Yes, it was perfectly possible that he'd be asleep by, what, seven, eight p.m.? Be it because of an all-nighter or because he had to get up awfully early the next day. So maybe, just maybe—

"What do you mean?" Charlie asked.

"What if someone who has, like, a terminal illness looks into a mirror set to five years in the future? Or someone who'll have a car accident a week later?"

"Well, don't you have a morbid imagination," she muttered. "I guess it comes with the job. But—" She shrugged. "I don't know? I never really thought about it. I don't think the mirror can foresee accidents, for one. But for the rest…" She pouted thoughtfully. "Maybe it wouldn't work the same way it doesn't work if your future self is asleep, and you would only see darkness." She looked at him, hesitant. "Why are you asking?"

"Just, you know…" Dean said distractedly, staring at the small mirror one of the organizers was polishing with a cloth in preparation for the spell. "Just wondering."

Fortunately Charlie didn't ask any more questions. The last stragglers arrived and settled. Silence fell as one of the organizers, a woman slightly older than the rest, with long, bright red curly hair, took the mirror to cast the spell. Dean's heart beat hard as the mirror slowly passed from hand to hand, each person bending over it for maybe half a minute before blinking and handing it over to their neighbor. Some did so with a smile, others with a confused furrow on their brow, others with a blank expression, others with a disappointed curl to their mouth. A young man came out of it with a bright flush on his face, which let anyone guess _what_ he'd seen; a girl left her vision gaping, but not unhappy. Some people didn't look into the mirror, simply passed it along, and as it circled closer Dean felt torn. He could do the same, abstain without anyone asking why—except maybe Charlie, but she wouldn't be mean about it. Or he could look into the mirror. Maybe he'd see something, and realize that his previous experience with it had been a fluke.

Or he'd see that horrifying _nothing_. Again.

Finally the mirror reached Charlie, who looked up after half a minute with a smug smile, and then it was in his hands. Dean held it for a second, entirely indecisive.

But he had to know. He deserved to know for sure, _Cas_ deserved to know for sure. So he let out his breath. He looked down at the mirror. What he saw—

It wasn't nothing.

 

*

 

He slipped out of the tent as soon as he could, on the pretext that he had to pee. Charlie wrinkled her nose at the way he said it, letting him go like he had scabies.

Once outside, he headed in the exact opposite direction to the hut housing the bathrooms—one of the luxuries of modern times no one had given up on, but that was probably for hygiene reasons.

The clearing where they'd set up camp for the weekend was empty, eerily quiet beyond the noise coming from the tent. It sounded far away by the time Dean reached the tree line, only the occasional burst of laughter and the music of a flute and lute reaching him from time to time, when the breeze rose and found no leaves to rustle through. He leaned against a tree and looked up at the sky. Night had fallen completely by now and the clouds had started to part, allowing a glimpse of dark blue sky and, here and there, the bright pinprick of a star.

He focused on one of them, swallowing through his tight throat. It winked down at him like a friend sharing a secret, until it was obscured, suddenly, unexpectedly.

Dean gasped. He hastily brought a hand up to his eyes, hid them and squeezed them shut, but it was too late. One tear escaped, then two, and then the dam broke and he was weeping. He wept like a kid who'd had a fright, like a terrified teenager on the night before he left for college, like a man afraid and ashamed, hiding his face behind both his hands, trying to muffle his sobs so they wouldn't be heard, hunching over his pain so it wouldn't be seen. He wept with his whole body, with the tears of his eyes and the gasps in his throat, the sniffles of his nose and the tremble of his hands, the jarring of his shoulders and the knot in his belly, the weakness in his knees and the curling of his toes. He wept without being able to stop, out of exhaustion after months of carrying a heavy, horrifying thought night and day, of pretending it wasn't there; out of guilt for keeping it all a secret from his mother, from his brother, from his friends, but for forcing Cas to carry it too even though he hadn't owed him a damn thing; out of fear because he'd been afraid, he'd been terrified, and he still was, because he'd never be able to forget that he was mortal, and that being mortal meant that one day he would lose the ones he loved; but most of all out of relief, because even if he died, it wasn't going to be now, it wasn't going to be soon—or so he hoped.

It took a long time before he could take a hold of himself, dry his eyes without breaking down all over again a second later, clear his throat one last time. On shaky legs he headed to the bathroom to blow his nose with a paper towel and to splash water on his face at a tiny, rusty sink. There was no mirror to look at himself, which might've been for the best. He took a fortifying breath and returned to the tent.

He'd been absent for far longer than any bathroom break would warrant but no one seemed to have noticed. The people here barely knew him and the only one who really did was otherwise distracted. Dean found her near the fire, sitting with her girlfriend Gilda, who was wearing a beautiful dress, ivory but for its now muddied bottom hemline. He hoped it was washable.

"Hey, Charlie," Dean said once he was close enough. His voice was still a broken wreck.

"Yup," Charlie said, distractedly glancing up at him.

"Could you give me your car keys? I need to make a phone call." He had to call Cas, now.

"What?" Charlie protested. "Come on, Winchester, you know the rules. No technology until we leave the premises, don't tell me you're that addicted to your phone."

"Charlie," Dean insisted. It made her take a better look at his face. "Please, it's important."

He didn't know if it was the wobble in his voice, or something she saw in his eyes, but all teasing disappeared from her expression.

"Okay," she said appeasingly, digging into the small pouch attached to her belt. "Okay."

He thanked her when she handed over her key, avoiding her concerned gaze and hurrying right back out before she could ask what was wrong.

He found the car, found his phone. His hands were trembling as he typed in Cas' number, as he brought the cell to his ear, at it rang. And rang. And rang. And went to voicemail. Dean cursed, tried calling again, with the same result.

"Damn it," he hissed, looking at the time. It was late, but not that late, especially not in California. It was the weekend, so Cas wasn't at the hospital, and there was no reason for him to be asleep already. Unless he was out with friends and didn't hear his phone ringing over the din of a bar.

Dean made a third attempt and, when it remained unfruitful, resigned himself to leaving a message.

"Hey, Cas," he said after the beep. "It's, um. It's me." Hell, his voice was still a mess. In that second he realized he wouldn't be able to tell Cas any of this, not now, not like this. He needed to hear Cas' voice first, to feel his presence, distant as it was, to perceive every single one of his reactions. He needed Cas to—

He needed Cas.

"Can you call me back as soon as you get this?" he settled on asking. "We—" He had to clear his throat. "We need to talk."

He felt bereft, leaving it at that, but he had no other choice. He ended the message and looked down at his phone for a long while. Its screen darkened, then turned itself off, yet part of him still hoped that Cas would check his cell and call back now. Five minutes passed, ten. Dean had to accept that that wouldn't be the case. He sighed. He put his phone back in the pocket of his duffel, locked the car and walked slowly back to the tent.

Charlie was waiting for him outside, a worried look on her face.

"Your call went okay?" she asked as soon as he was close enough to hear.

Dean shook his head. "He didn't answer," he said, trying and failing to sound nonchalant.

"Oh." Charlie hesitated, but her hand was firm when she stopped him before he stepped through the flap. "Dean, are you okay?" She bit her lips when he glanced at her. "What you saw in the mirror it wasn't anything… bad, right?"

"You know what I saw," Dean said, because she'd asked right after and he'd told her. It had been blurry, like watching something through frosted glass, through water, but Dean would've known the interior of his car anywhere. It had been night, the landscape through the windshield too faded to be identified, but his feelings had been familiar: the quiet he felt at the wheel, the tiredness at the end of a long day… and something else, too, something like expectancy.

It had been all. It had been everything.

"Because if it was," Charlie added as if he hadn't spoken, "you have to know that scrying isn't always 100% accurate, and that you only see a short vague glimpse, which is extremely easy to interpret the wrong way and—"

"Charlie," Dean interrupted, voice more even. "It wasn't anything bad, I swear. On the contrary, it was good. Great even, in a way. Just… unexpected. Okay? That's all."

She looked him in the eye for several seconds. "Okay," she finally said, apparently choosing to believe that he was saying the truth. Still, she asked, "Do you want to go now?"

Dean blinked at her and not for the first time since the start of that weekend, since they'd begun talking more at work even, he wondered why they hadn't become friends earlier, why he'd so often and so easily dismissed her over the past years. She was just… nice. A bit quirky, a bit awkward, but smart and gifted. Caring.

"Nah, it's okay," Dean said, smile growing more genuine. "I wouldn't want to cut into your time with Gilda." From what he'd gathered, in between Gilda's changing shifts at the hospital, Charlie's crazy hours at the station and the fact that they lived one hour car ride from each other, they didn't get to see each other as much as they would've wanted.

Exactly like he and Cas would, were Cas to move to Kansas City at the end of the year.

"Okay," Charlie agreed again, quicker this time. "But just so you know, it won't be too long before we have to split. Some people have work tomorrow."

Dean, who was one of these people, let out a laugh—small, but still a laugh.

 

*

 

Cas hadn't tried to call him back by the time Dean woke up the following day. His phone lay quiet, not even signaling a missed call he wouldn't have heard during the night. It was a bit strange, and frustrating, but Dean didn't have the time to dwell on it as he'd set his alarm as late as possible to catch a minimum amount of sleep.

Contrary to what Charlie had announced, she hadn't managed to part from Gilda before the last organizers had put a definite end to the event and shooed everyone off towards the parking lot around 11 p.m. Gilda was sleeping at a nearby hotel since she had a night shift on Monday and could go home in the morning, but for her girlfriend and Dean, who had to ride back that night, staying so late had been a less than reasonable choice.

Dean didn't mind. He'd slept like the dead, better than he had in half a year, apart from a couple of nights spent at Cas' side. Besides, what had happened over the weekend, what he'd learned, was starting to register and he felt lighter by the minute, elated and relieved.

It earned him a certain amount of glares at work, since he had no apparent reason to be that chipper and was bringing no pastry to appease everyone and spread some joy. Only Benny took it with ease, watching him amusedly before he said, "Glad to see you're having a good day, chief. Happy birthday, by the way."

That was when Dean remembered what the 24th of January stood for. He'd completely forgotten.

His feelings abated somehow when lunch rolled around and he still hadn't heard anything from Cas, not even received a text for his birthday like the ones Sam, his mom and Lisa had sent. He rang again, without success.

"Yeah, it's me again," he said when he was once again sent to voicemail. "I don't know if you got my last message? Anyway, again, if you could call back asap, that'd be great. I got something to tell you that's kinda important?" he went on, stressing the words in a way he hoped sounded meaningful. "I hope you're doing okay," he concluded awkwardly. "Bye."

To make it up to his colleagues for the absence of pie that Monday and because he felt the urge to do something nice for his mom, he drove to Mary's house that evening, stopping on the way to buy some groceries for dinner and two pies. When she came home, exhausted from her shift, and saw everything ready and waiting for her, she nearly melted.

"You are an angel," she told Dean, kissing him on the forehead. "You shouldn't have done all that, it's _your_ birthday." He tutted and gave her a hug in return, on the pretext of being comforting and supportive but really because he couldn't help it. The last time he'd seen her, he'd been convinced he'd lose her soon—or rather, that she'd lose him.

"You're beautiful and I love you," he blurted like an idiot—except that she was, with her shoulder-length hair, her thin wrinkles, the familiar green eyes he'd inherited, and he did, he loved her so much, and he wasn't going to leave her, not yet, maybe not ever, and he'd never been happier to have been wrong about anything in his life. She blinked at him when he pulled back, taken aback. He blushed like a teenager. "Come on, sit down," he said, guiding her towards her seat.

"Well," she said slowly once she was settled, watching him bring the pots to the table. "That LARPing thing certainly worked wonders on you."

"Yeah," Dean said, happy for the excuse. "It was great."

She asked him how it had gone while they ate the huge portions he'd served and he explained everything to her, how everyone divided themselves into different groups—Elves, Shadow Orcs, Warriors of Yesteryear…—how Charlie had been elected Queen because she was that badass, how Dean had been right by her side as her—

That was when he realized he'd ventured too far. Of course, Mary didn't let him stop there.

"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up," he grumbled as she did just that.

"Her _handmaiden_?" she repeated, incredulous and delighted. Sometimes Dean wished he didn't know where his own love of teasing came from.

"I'll have you know that under that disguise I was actually the Queen's most gifted strategist," Dean said haughtily.

"Ooh, really?" At least she played the part of a captive audience to perfection.

"Yup," Dean nodded. "She told me so herself. How d'you think we beat the Shadow Orcs and Warriors of Yesteryear, uh?"

"I see," Mary said thoughtfully. "It was nothing but a clever ruse to make everyone underestimate you."

It had mostly been Charlie unashamedly screwing with him, but Dean replied, "Exactly."

The pies baked in the oven while they ate. After they'd gotten them out, and while they waited for Dean's birthday pie to cool down a bit, Dean briefly stepped outside to check his phone and, when he saw he still hadn't any new message, to try and call Cas again.

It didn't even ring before he was sent to voicemail. And okay, Dean knew they'd had kind of a fight before his LARPing weekend but surely it didn't warrant him being ignored that completely, and for that long? If Cas didn't want to talk, the least he could do was _tell_ him. "Damn it, Cas," he muttered irritatedly as a message. " _Call_ me."

"Everything okay?" Mary asked when he stepped back inside. "Uh uh, don't look," she hastily added. She was in the process of lighting the candles she'd stuck on his pie.

"Yes, yeah," Dean said, obediently turning away and rubbing the back of his head. "It's just that Cas is not answering his phone."

She closed the matchbox and went to fetch the cake slicer. "Maybe he's asleep. You can turn around now."

"I don't think so," Dean said, sitting down in front of his now brightly lit pie with a frown. "He doesn't really have shifts right now, it's mostly classes he can easily move around so he can go have his interviews for his residency program applications. So apart from the—" He broke off. "Oh _crap_."

Mary paused halfway into her seat. "What?"

"He _is_ asleep, that's why he's not answering," he said, dragging a hand through his hair. "And of course he is, he's been operating all morning, using magic." He met his mom's gaze. "It's his first series of heavy-weight operations after what happened last fall, fuck, I completely forgot."

"Dean—"

"I can't believe it, he's been talking about it since the last time he came here—"

"Dean—"

"—and I didn't even call him beforehand to wish him good luck and tell him that of course he'll do great, God, I'm such an _asshole_. He must be thinking I'm still pissed about the other day and—"

" _Dean_." His mother's firm, scolding voice, accompanied by her hand falling on his shoulder, snapped him out of it. She met and held his eyes. "Breathe."

Dean breathed.

"Good," she approved. "Now. Cas is not gonna wilt if not you forgot to sent a text of support. He did fine before he met you, and I'm sure he knows you believe in him."

"But—"

He was silenced by a look.

"He's not answering his phone, not because he's angry at you for missing the boat, but because all his free time is spent sleeping, am I right?" Dean nodded. "And if he thinks you hold a grudge against him 'about the other day'—which you can talk to me about if you need to, by the way—you'll have all the time in the world to clear that up when he arrives at the end of the week. That's still the plan, isn't it?"

It was the plan, except that Dean had completely forgotten to confirm the leave he'd asked for with HR, and that he wasn't sure where he'd put the piece of paper on which he'd written Cas' time of arrival.

"Shit."

"Language," Mary said, patting his head. "LARPing sure took your mind off things. We'll have to remember that." She returned to her seat. "Now blow your candles and make a wish so that I can give you your present."

 

*

 

The rest of the week brought one source of relief: apparently the FBI was going to do its job (for once) and take care of all long-term undercover missions linked to the investigation. Freed from that preoccupation, if not from everything else the station still had to do to try and solve the case, Dean spent those days chiefly worrying and trying not to worry over Cas' continuous silence instead. He'd left another message apologizing for losing track of days and not wishing Cas good luck on Monday, but hadn't gotten anything in return. He understood that Cas was probably exhausted, he told himself, and that what little energy he had left was best used focusing on eating something and falling into bed instead of onto the floor. He hoped things were going well. Part of him was pissed that Cas didn't bother even sending a text at the end of the day to keep him updated, especially after last time. They'd definitely have to work on his tendency to drop off the face of the Earth that way. But another part of him feared the reason why that might be so even more.

He managed to have Sam drop by Cas' flat, but his brother came back empty-handed. Cas hadn't opened the door when he'd knocked—but he probably hadn't been there at all, Sam had said. He'd explained that Cas often preferred to spend his nights at the hospital while in the middle of an operating cycle. It was easier. And safer.

On Thursday Dean caved in and called the hospital itself. He asked for Meg—who told him everything was 'just peachy', in such a tone of voice that he couldn't be sure if she was being reassuring or terribly sarcastic.

"He's still coming on Friday, right?" he asked to be sure.

"Oh, Dean-o, don't worry," she replied, tone strained in a way that told him she was starting to have enough—of him, or of Cas, or of them both, he didn't know. "He's been fantasizing about you coddling him for _months_ now, so I don't care what he says, and I'll drag him if I have to, but he _is_ taking that plane."

Dean had to search his living-room for half an hour before he found the slip of paper on which he'd written Cas' flight informations. On Friday evening, after checking on the internet that the flight was still on time and that he had the right terminal, he drove directly to the airport, eager to see Cas, to make sure he was okay, to tell him all about his LARPing weekend and what he'd found out there.

Due to evening traffic, on top of how late he'd left the station, he made it to the airport five minutes after Cas' plane was supposed to have landed. He rushed across the parking lot and through the wide halls, almost praying not to get lost this time.

Cas was already there when he reached the terminal, motionless in the middle of the busy crowd, looking lost and exhausted and strangely defeated. Dean cursed himself for not sending him a text warning he'd be late, but by the time it had become obvious he'd been halfway there already, and he'd made it a point over the last few months never to text and drive for obvious reasons. He'd decided that that wasn't about to change, just in case Charlie was right and a scrying mirror couldn't foresee accidents. He lengthened his stride even more and called out Cas' name.

Cas froze. Purely and simply, and he remained so as Dean approached, staring at him with wide, apprehensive eyes. Dean stopped right in front of him and, carried by the sheer relief and happiness of seeing him again, whole and safe, complete with stubble and bags under his eyes and messy unwashed hair, he took his face between his hands and kissed him right here and there, right on the mouth, right in the middle of the crowded airport. It was quick and exuberant, so much so that Cas' only reaction was a gasp, muffled by Dean enveloping him into a hug.

"Damn, it's good to see you," he said, squeezing him a bit. "You okay? The operations went well?" He pressed his lips against Cas' temple to check his temperature. It felt normal, but Dean lingered anyway, just because.

"I— Yes," Cas said after a bit, sounding a bit strangled. Slowly, hesitantly, his arms went up and around Dean's torso to return his embrace. "Yes, everything was fine."

"Good," Dean said with a sigh of relief. He closed his eyes, Cas' hair tickling his nose. "I'm sorry, I was a dick. I forgot to call you beforehand."

"It's okay—"

"No, it's not," Dean said. "I'll do better next time, I promise." Cas' hold around him tightened. "Did you get my messages?"

Cas buried his head in the crook of his neck and shoulder. "Yes," he replied. "I mean, I could only listen to the first one and— I'm sorry I didn't reply. I—" He paused. When he finished the sentence, his voice was so low Dean almost didn't hear it. "I was afraid."

"Afraid?" Dean would've pulled back to try and meet his eye, but Cas was now holding him so tightly he felt it wouldn't be a good idea. He settled for cupping the back of his head and ruffling the hair there.

Cas nodded. His reply, when it came, was halting, all stop and go. "Your voice, you sounded… It was strange, and I thought… You said we needed to talk." He swallowed. "And I was afraid that you'd tell me not to come or— or that we—" He stopped there.

"What?" Dean said, utterly confused. This time he did pull back and Cas let him go, albeit reluctantly. Dean kept a hold of his shoulders as he took a look at his face. His eyes were red, but now Dean wasn't so sure whether it was because of exhaustion or something else entirely. "Why would I tell you not to come? I couldn't wait to see you again. I just—" He could help the smile that stole over his face. "I have news. Good news."

Cas took a breath and straightened up, rubbing at one of his eyes. "News?"

"Yeah," Dean nodded, now fully grinning. His hands trailed down Cas' arms until they reached and took hold of Cas' hands. "What we thought on Sam's birthday, about the scrying? It's all bullshit. I mean," he amended at once, "not complete bullshit, apparently it is accurate, but what I saw— Cas, I was _asleep_."

Cas blinked at him as a frown formed on his forehead. "What?"

Dean realized he wasn't making much sense. "Me, future me, the me I saw four years from then—or well, _didn't_ see—he was asleep," he explained. "That's why I didn't see anything, not because I was dead, or going to be dead."

He looked at Cas expectantly, waiting for his reaction. Cas just stared.

"You get what this means?" he asked, squeezing Cas' hands.

"I—" He didn't seem sure. Mostly he looked tired. Dean took pity on him.

"I'm not dying," he said. "I mean, in four years, I won't be dead. I'll still be here. Hopefully with you. Being my annoying se—"

He was cut off by Cas kissing him—or falling into him, more like, because he barely seemed to have the energy to hold himself upright. Dean let out a short laugh, letting go of his hands to catch him by the shoulders and kiss back.

"My interview is on Monday," Cas said when he drew back, like it was the next logical step in their conversation.

"Yeah, yeah, hold your horses, cowboy," Dean said, unwilling to broach that topic on which he still had big reservations, even though part of him felt utterly enamored with Cas' unrelenting stubbornness instead of irritated. He pressed his forehead against Cas'. "For now you need rest. You know, sleep, and food, and fluids."

"Yes, Dean," Cas said with a smile, eyes closed.

Dean allowed him to stay that way for a couple more seconds, before he took a step back. "Come on," he said, taking Cas' backpack from him and slinging it over his shoulder. He picked up Cas' suitcase and, when he straightened, took Cas' hand in his free one. "Let's go home."

 

*

 

"We're idiots," Castiel muttered later when Dean stepped back into the bedroom. He was lying amongst a mess of sheets and pillows, half giggling, still high on endorphins, exhaustion and relief. "We should've checked. I'm sure there are hundreds of websites, of books, on divination and its loopholes."

"Yeah, except you're the only one who reads the manual and feels bad when you don't," Dean said, even though now that the high on which he'd been during the whole week whenever he thought about how mistaken he'd been was fading, he did feel a bit sheepish for jumping to conclusions so fast and not even asking a specialist about it. Some aspiring detective he was.

He sat down next to Cas on the bed, handing over a full glass of water. He hadn't been kidding about fluids.

"But the manual is useful," Cas pointed out before he drained the glass in one. Dean watched his throat work when he tilted his head back, the bobbing of his Adam's apple. He wanted to press his lips there again. "Case in point," Cas added when he was done, leaning over to put the glass on the bedside table. He noticed the probably obvious look on Dean's face and grinned. "But I guess that celebrating the end of a mistake due to insufficient knowledge of the material does have its perks," he sighed, slinging an arm around Dean's shoulders and pulling him back down with him to lie on the bed.

"Wow, hey," Dean said, turning his head away and ending up with a kiss on the cheek, which turned into nips and small bites headed right towards that spot underneath his ear. "Easy there, I think you got your fill."

He hadn't even planned for anything to happen upon their reaching his flat, aside from him putting Cas to bed and waking him up just long enough to feed him dinner. But Cas had had other ideas, and he'd been so eager, so intent, almost clingy but also determined… It had looked like he wanted to devour Dean. And Dean, well.  
Dean was weak.

"No, I haven't," Cas protested, holding him back when he tried to sit up.

"Okay," Dean agreed patiently, unhooking Cas' arms from behind his neck. "But I say, you need to—"

"I'm never gonna get my fill," Cas said, falling back onto the pillow. "Not of you. Not of being with you." He said it in such a tone, quiet yet fond, soft yet warm, that Dean understood that it wasn't to be taken in a bad way. Instead of standing up to get started on dinner he let Cas have his hand, let Cas watch him in the dim glow of the bedside lamp.

"You know," Cas said. "That night. On Sam's birthday?"

"Yeah?" Dean said, now watching their hands, Cas' fingers tracing his knuckles, his rings.

"You remember, I saw myself working in the mirror." Dean nodded. "But there was something…" He brought Dean's hand to his lips to drop a kiss on the tip of his fingers. A small thrill, almost a shiver, ran down Dean's spine. "Even though I couldn't clearly see my surroundings, it was… I didn't recognize where it was. But I knew, I don't know how, I _knew_ it wasn't any of the hospitals I was familiar with or had already visited for my applications. And yet I was content. That was what struck me the most. I didn't see much, it was so blurry, but that feeling. It was so clear. I was present, I felt useful. It was all… very puzzling." He paused. "And then I visited the University of Kansas Hospital."

"That's where you were in the mirror?" Dean guessed.

"I'm pretty sure, yes," Cas said, looking at the ceiling. He still hadn't let go of Dean's hand. "It had been on my first list, you know. It simply hadn't made the final cut—except that in the end, I added it again. Right after… Right before the application deadline."

"I don't get it. Does that mean the mirror foresaw that we'd end up together?"

Cas looked back at him. "What do you mean?"

"It's just… You looked in the mirror before I even did and if I hadn't… I wouldn't have— We wouldn't have talked. We wouldn't have gone on that road trip, or exchanged numbers." His eyes widened. "We wouldn't even be here right now."

They wouldn't be together, probably wouldn't even be friends. The mere thought left Dean gobsmacked. Lost, too: he had a hard time picturing his life without Cas in it, some way or another. But without the push that his missed vision had been, prompting him to talk to Cas, to admit to himself how attracted he was to him, to keep contact and, later on, to gather his courage and agree to start something with him…

It wasn't just that, too. In his attempts to distract himself from what he'd seen, or to make the most of the time he'd thought he'd left, he'd done things he never would have otherwise. He'd gained so much from it, too: a new hobby, a new friend, a renewed sense of complicity with his mom accompanied by a whole new set of skills… A boyfriend. A better understanding of the person he was, of what could make him happy. The fright was gone now, but all of that remained. In the end, he left those nine months with a lot more to lose than at their beginning.

Things weren't hundred percent rosy, of course. There was still the case at work, which was far from being solved. There were still too many victims, people Dean should've been able to help but hadn't, partly because of how distracted he'd been. There was still an investigation to be led, and it would still be dangerous, maybe even life-threatening, no matter what a scrying mirror showed or didn't.

But the fact that, against all expectations, something good had come out it too was… kind of awesome.

"I wouldn't be so sure," Cas was saying, tugging on Dean's hand. Dean obediently scooted closer and Cas reached up to brush his fingers against his cheek, his nose. "I think you would've made quite an impression on me that night, no matter what."

"I would?" Dean said, first raising his eyebrows in surprise, then grinning.

"Well, I was biased in your favor from the get go," Cas said. "Sam speaks very highly of you."

Dean ducked his head. "I know."

"I'd probably have tried to talk to you on the roof," Cas went on, now squinting at the ceiling like he was trying to picture the scene. "Something tells me that you wouldn't have joined their circle anyway." His lips curled down. "I might even have attempted to flirt. Given a certain definition of flirting."

Dean was delighted.  "Man, I'm sad I missed that."

"I'm not," Cas retorted.

"Aw, come on," Dean cajoled, finally giving in an lying back down beside Cas. "I'm sure I would've found it cute."

Cas reacted by hiding eyes behind his hand. "It would've been awkward," he said. "You would've spent all our conversation wondering why the weird robot guy had chosen you to test his sub-par human interaction software."

"Hey," Dean protested, dragging Cas' hand away from his eyes. "Don't talk about yourself like that. And if it's any consolation, I'm sure I would've been right there with you. You've never seen me trying to interact with a guy I find cute."

"I thought you were smoother than Casanova."

Dean shook his head. "Not with guys," he said, and tried not to remember his high school self trying and failing to interact with Aaron Bass in chemistry class.

"So it would have been an utter failure," Cas concluded.

"Or it would've worked." At Cas' skeptical huff he shuffled closer and added, "I'm serious. I mean, maybe your dorky act would've put me at ease. It would've made you seem more reachable and maybe I would've thought—" He looked down at the hand Cas was still holding. "You're my first guy, you know. For a lot of things."

"I… wasn't sure," Cas said cautiously.

"Come on," Dean snorted. "I was awkward as all hell when we first… You know."

"I thought it was because it mattered to you. And because you still weren't 100% sure that it was a good idea," Cas said. "But at the same time you were… very clear, and very sure, about what you wanted."

"Maybe," Dean conceded. His memories of that night were a whirlwind, but he thought he could remember himself saying—gasping—'Can you fuck me? I want you to fuck me' at one point. Maybe. "I was curious about, you know. That. And," he added, voice softer, "I trusted you. I trust you."

"Would you have trusted me as a complete stranger, though?" Cas said with a pointed raise of eyebrow.

"Maybe?" Dean leaned over Cas and let a slow, evocative smile spread onto his lips. He was giving his former self far too much credit, he knew, but surely they could dream for a bit. "Maybe I would've found you just that irresistible. Maybe I would've wanted you to be my first anyway, and no one else. Just to see how it was."

"So, a one-night-stand," Cas said.

"Yeah," Dean whispered. "And I'm such a handsome bastard that you would definitely have agreed, even if casual sex isn't your thing."

"Modest, to boot." He was trying very had to pretend he was unaffected, but Dean caught the faint tremor in his voice.

"It would've been great night," he said, right against Cas' lips.

"Mind-blowing, I imagine?" Cas murmured back.

Dean hummed in agreement.

"But that would've been that," Cas went on. "You would've gone back to Kansas, and I would've gone back to my studies."

Dean's smile faded with his perfect little fantasy. "Yeah, maybe." He paused, then smiled again. "Or… we would've exchanged numbers."

"We would've started texting," Cas said, playing along.

"We totally would've hooked up again when I came back in July."

"We might even have agreed to give this a go despite the distance."

"Yeah, exactly," Dean said. He kissed Cas, justifying it as a simple thank you for agreeing with him, even though half his mind was starting to think that Cas had definitely been onto something with his suggestion for a round two—especially when he kissed back like that, slow and deep and meant.

"And—" Cas said when they parted. "We would've ended up right here." Dean nodded in agreement and leaned in to kiss him some more, but Cas stopped him with a hand on his chest. Dean met his eye. His expression had changed, focused and stubborn where it had been hazy and hungry mere seconds before. "Which is why I'll be moving to Kansas in the fall."

Dean blinked. He realized he'd walked right into a trap. If you could call it that.

"Technically, Kansas City's in Missouri," he pointed out, straightening up. "And Cas…" He sighed and turned away to sit at the edge of the bed. "Don't get me wrong, I want you to move here. God," he sighed, rubbing a hand down his face, "I want it so bad."

"You never said," Cas said. He sounded small.

Dean felt like a dick. "I know. 'Cause even though I want it, I still don't think it's a good idea."

"Why not?" Cas asked, his stubborn frown making its return as he propped himself up on his elbows.

"You'd be throwing away a number of great opportunities for education, for a career, and for what, to be with me?"

"Yes," Cas said. "And to work at a good medical center, in a team where I'd be useful and—"

"What about your family? And your friends?"

"As you might've noticed, it's kind of impossible to get rid of my family, even if your try," Cas reminded him. "As for the rest… If they are good friends, we'll keep in touch. Sam will even come here when he visits, and he's one of the best friends I've made in Stanford."

It sounded so easy when he said it like that, so similar to what Charlie had said, but so much more convincing when wrapped in Cas' voice. Yet Dean just—

"I don't get it," he confessed.

"You don't get what?"

"It sounds all fine and dandy but— but I know I'm still a huge part of the equation, 'cause that hospital sure ain't the only one who could do with one more resident licensed in healing magic on his staff. And I _know_ you would never have even thought of putting their program at the top of your list, if it weren't for me. I just don't get why. I mean, I'm not—" He broke off.

Cas narrowed his eyes. "Not what?"

Dean looked away. "It's not worth it," he managed to say. _And in the end you'll hate me for that_ , he couldn't add.

He swallowed. It sounded incredibly loud in the silence that followed.

"Dean," Cas said. When Dean didn't react, he sat up and shifted closer until he reached Dean's side. "Dean, look at me." He did. Cas took his face between his hands and looked intently into his eyes. "It is," he said, clear and certain and impossible to question. "You are. You _are_ worth it." Dean had to look down, away, and Cas' voice grew confused. "How can you not—" He paused. "I love you," he said. It sounded like a last resort, like a plea just wishing to be heard; it startled Dean into glancing back at Cas, who caught his gaze and held it, pinned under his honesty and earnestness. "I _love_ you," he repeated. "Of course it's worth it."

A knot formed in Dean's throat, and he looked back down at his knees. His eyes were burning. "You should rest," he managed to say.

"Dean—"

"No, come on," Dean said over him. "No protest, you're exhausted. You should be sleeping already." He nudged Cas to lie back down but Cas resisted, of course, frown so deep it marred his whole face.

"But—"

Dean grabbed that face between his hands. "I love you too, okay?" he gritted out. Cas' expression blanked. "But just… Later, okay? We'll talk later."

"… Okay," Cas said, finally scooting backwards to lie down. His eyes never left Dean's face.

"Okay, good," Dean replied. He wanted to turn away and flee the room to try and recover his composure, because his throat was still tight, his eyes still prickling, and he refused to lose it, not again, not in front of Cas. But when he went to stand up he was held back by the wrist.

He would've glared and snapped, maybe, probably, but he didn't get the time: Cas had already slid a hand behind his head and was bringing their lips together.

Somehow, he felt better, more settled, when Cas pulled away.

"Later," he whispered, lips still brushing against Dean's. He looked up into his eyes. "I will convince you that this is for the best, and worth it," he added, almost like a promise. He smiled. "I have all the time in the world to do that now."

Dean couldn't help but smile too. "Yeah," he said. "We do."

 

*

 

END

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> For those worried and distrustful of tags: there is no actual major character death in this fic, hence why it is not tagged.
> 
> For those who would like to spread the art & fic via tumblr (hey, a girl can dream), [here is the tumblr post](http://aberimfauscho.tumblr.com/post/131729569695/what-the-future-holds-written-by-niitza-art-by).


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